



r?^^^:^^-^ 

















y<'mx'f'm:'. 






a^- 



'^\< :'r:^ Sfijf. 
■■■' ^?i; t.:' 



^.>Si^^^V 






t^ 











Class, 

Book 

Gopiglit]^'^- 



COFUUCHT DEPO&m 



^P Jan {)ap 

ALL IN IT: K I CARRIES ON. 
PIP: A ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
GETTING TOGETHER. 
THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND. 

SCALLY:THE STORY OF A PERFECT GENTLE- 
MAN. With Frontispiece. 
A KNIGHT ON WHEELS. 

HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. Illustrated by Charles E. Brock. 
A SAFETY MATCH. With frontrtpece. 
A MAN'S MAN. With frontisniece. 
THE RIGHT STUFF. With frootispiece. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Boston and New Yokk 



ALL IN IT 

"K(l)" Carries On 



ALL IN IT 

"K (1)" 
Carries On 



BY 

IAN HAY 




Boston and New York 

Houghton Mifflin Company 

($be jaitjerjiibe ^tt^ €ambrili0C 

1917 






COPYRIGHT, I917, BY IAN HAY BEITH 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Publiahed Novtmhtr 1Q17 



1.^0 



-71917 



©CI.A477449 



TO 
ALL SECOND LIEUTENANTS 

AND IN PARTICULAR TO 
THE MEMORY OF 

ONE SECOND LIEUTENANT 



AUTHOR'S NOTE 

The First Hundred Thousand closed with the 
Battle of Loos. The present narrative follows 
certain friends of ours from the scene of that 
costly but valuable experience, through a win- 
ter campaign in the neighbourhood of Ypres and 
Ploegsteert, to profitable participation in the Bat- 
tle of the Somme. 

Much has happened since then. The initiative 
has passed once and for all into our hands; so has 
the command of the air. Russia has been reborn, 
and, like most healthy infants, is passing through 
an uproarious period of teething trouble; but now 
America has stepped in, and promises to do more 
than redress the balance. All along the Western 
Front we have begun to move forward, without 
haste or flurry, but in such wise that during the 
past twelve months no position, once fairly cap- 
tured and consolidated, has ever been regained 
by the enemy. To-day you can stand upon cer- 
tain recently won eminences — Wytchaete Ridge, 
Messines Ridge, Vimy Ridge, and Monchy — 
looking down into the enemy's lines, and looking 
forward to the territory which yet remains to be 
restored to France. 

You can also look back — not merely from 
these ridges, but from certain moral ridges as 
well — over the ground which has been success- 
fully traversed, and you can marvel for the hun- 



viii AUTHOR'S NOTE 

dredth time, not that the thing was well or 
badly done, but that it was ever done at all. 

But while this narrative was being written, 
none of these things had happened. We were 
still struggling uphill, with inadequate resources. 
So, since the incidents of the story were set down, 
in the main, as they occurred and when they oc- 
curred, the reader will find very little perspective, 
a great deal of the mood of the moment, and none 
at all of that profound wisdom which comes after 
the event. For the latter he must look home — 
to the lower walks of journalism and the back 
benches of the House of Commons. 

It is not proposed to carry this story to a third 
volume. The First Hundred Thousand, as such, 
are no more. Like the '^ Old Contemptibles," they 
are now merged in a greater and more victori- 
ous army — in an armed nation, in fact. And, 
as Sergeant Mucklewame once observed to me, 
''There's no that mony of us left now, onyways." 
So with all reverence — remembering how, when 
they were needed most, these men did not pause 
to reason why or count the cost, but came at 
once — we bid them good-bye. 



CONTENTS 

I. WINTER QUARTERS 1 

11. SHELL OUT! 18 

III. WINTER SPORTS : VARIOUS 35 

IV. THE PUSH THAT FAILED 62 

V. UNBENDING THE BOW 70 

VI. YE MERRIE BUZZERS 96 

Vn. PASTURES NEW 119 

VIIL "THE NON-COMBATANT" 137 

IX. TUNING UP 169 

X. FULL CHORUS 186 

XL THE LAST SOLO 197 

XII. RECESSIONAL 212 

XIII. "TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE 

WARS" 223 



All In It 

"K (1) " Carries On 
I 

WINTER QUARTERS 



We are getting into our stride again. Two months 
ago we trudged into Bethune, gaunt, dirty, soaked 
to the skin, and reduced to a comparative hand- 
ful. None of us had had his clothes off for a week. 
Our ankle-puttees had long dropped to pieces, 
and our hose-tops, having worked under the soles 
of our boots, had been cut away and discarded. 
The result was a bare and mud-splashed expanse 
of leg from boot to kilt, except in the case of the 
enterprising few who had devised artistic spat- 
puttees out of an old sandbag. Our headgear con- 
sisted in a few cases of the regulation Balmoral 
bonnet, usually minus ^Hoorie" and badge; in a 
few more, of the battered remains of a gas helmet; 
and in the great majority, of a woollen cap-com- 
forter. We were bearded like that incomparable 
fighter, the poilu, and we were separated by an 
abyss of years, so our stomachs told us, from our 
last square meal. 

But we were wonderfully placid about it all. 
Our regimental pipers, who had come out to play 



2 ALL IN IT 

us in, were making what the Psalmist calls ^^a 
joyful noise" in front; and behind us lay the recol- 
lection of a battle, still raging, in which we had 
struck the first blow, and borne our full share for 
three days and nights. Moreover, our particular 
blow had^bitten deeper into the enemy's line than 
any other blow in the neighbourhood. And, most 
blessed thought of all, everything was over, and 
we were going back to rest. For the moment, the 
memory of the sights we had seen, and the tax we 
had levied upon our bodies and souls, together 
with the picture of the countless sturdy lads 
whom we had left lying beneath the sinister shade 
of Fosse Eight, were beneficently obscured by the 
prospect of food, sleep, and comparative clean- 
Hness, 

After restoring ourselves to our personal com- 
forts, we should doubtless go somewhere to refit. 
Drafts were already waiting at the Base to fill up 
the great gaps in our ranks. Our companies hav- 
ing been brought up to strength, a spate of pro- 
motions would follow. We had no Colonel, and 
only our Company Commander. Subalterns — . 
what was left of them — would come by their 
own. N.C.O.'s, again, would have to be created 
by the dozen. While all this was going on, and the 
old names were being weeded out of the muster- 
roll to make way for the new, the Quartermaster 
would be drawing fresh equipment — packs, 
mess-tins, water-bottles, and the hundred odd- 
ments which always go astray in times of stress. 
There would be a good deal of dialogue of this 
sort: — 



WINTER QUARTERS 3 

"Private M'Sumph, I see you are down for a 
new pack. Where is your old one?'' 

"Blawn off ma back, sirr!'' 

"Where are your puttees?" 

"Blawn off ma feet, sirr!'' 

"Where is your iron ration?" 

"Blawn oot o' ma pooch, sirr!" 

"Where is your head?" 

"Blawn — I beg your pardon, sirr!" — fol- 
lowed by generous reissues all round. 

After a month or so our beloved regiment, once 
more at full strength, with traditions and morale 
annealed by the fires of experience, would take its 
rightful place in the forefront of "K (1)." 

Such was the immediate future, as it presented 
itself to the wearied but optimistic brain of Lieu- 
tenant Bobby Little. He communicated his the- 
ories to Captain Wagstaffe. 

"I wonder!" replied that experienced officer. 



II 

The chief penalty of doing a job of work well is 
'that you are promptly put on to another. This is 
supposed to be a compliment. 

The authorities allowed us exactly two days' 
rest, and then packed us off by train, with the new 
draft, to a particularly hot sector of the trench- 
line in Belgium — there to carry on with the oper- 
ation known in nautical circles as "executing 
repairs while under steam." 

Well, we have been in Belgium for two months 
now, and, as already stated, are getting into our 
stride again. 



d ALL IN IT 

There are new faces everywhere, and some of the 
old faces are not quite the same. They are finer- 
drawn; one is conscious of less chubbiness all 
round. War is a great matiiring agent. There is, 
moreover, an air of seasoned authority abroad. 
Many who were second Heutenants or lance cor- 
porals three months ago are now commanding 
companies and platoons. Bobby Little is in com- 
mand of ^^A" Company: if he can cling to this 
precarious eminence for thirty days — that is, if 
no one is sent out to supersede him — he becomes 
an '' automatic" captain, aged twenty! Major 
Kemp commands the battalion; Wagstaffe is his 
senior major. Ay ling has departed from our 
midst, and rumour says that he is leading a sort of 
Pooh Bah existence at Brigade Headquarters. 

There are sad gaps among our old friends of the 
rank and file. Ogg and Hogg, M'Slattery and 
M 'Ostrich, have gone to the happy hunting- 
grounds. Private Dunshie, the General Specialist 
(who, you may remember, found his true voca- 
tion, after many days, as battalion chiropodist), is 
reported ''missing." But his comrades are posi- 
tive that no harm has befallen him. Long experi- 
ence has convinced them that in the art of landing 
on his feet their departed friend has no equal. 

''I doot he'll be a prisoner," suggests the faith- 
ful Mucklewame to the Transport Sergeant. 

"Aye," assents the Transport Sergeant bit- 
terly; ''he'll be a prisoner. No doot he'll try to 
pass himself off as an officer, for to get better 
quarters!" 

(The Transport Sergeant, in whose memory 



WINTER QUARTERS 5 

certain enormities of Dunshie had rankled ever 
since that versatile individual had abandoned the 
veterinary profession, owing to the most excus- 
able intervention of a pack-mule's off hind leg, 
was not far out in his surmise, as subsequent his- 
tory may some day reveal. But the telling of that 
story is still a long way off.) 

Company Sergeant-Major Pumpherston is now 
Sergeant-Major of the Battalion. Mucklewame is 
a corporal in his old company. Private Tosh was 
"offered a stripe,'' too, but declined, because the 
invitation did not include Private Cosh, who, 
owing to a regrettable lapse not unconnected with 
the rum ration, had been omitted from the Hon- 
ours' List. Consequently these two grim veterans 
remain undecorated, but they are objects of great 
veneration among the recently joined for all that. 

So you see us once more in harness, falling into 
the collar with energy, if not fervoiu*. We no 
longer regard War with the least enthusiasm : we 
have seen It, face to face. Our sole purpose now is 
to screw our sturdy followers up to the requisite 
pitch of efficiency, and keep them remorselessly 
at that standard until the dawn of triumphant 
and abiding peace. 

We have one thing upon our side — youth. 

'^Most of our regular senior officers are gone, 
sir," remarked Colonel Kemp one day to the 
Brigadier — ''dead, or wounded, or promoted to 
other commands; and I have something like 
twenty new subalterns. When you subtract a cen- 
tenarian like myself, the average age of our Bat- 
talion Mess, including Company Commanders, 



6 ALL IN IT 

works out at something under twenty-three. But 
I am not exchanging any of them, thanks!'' 

Ill 

Trench-Hfe in Belgium is an entirely different 
proposition from trench-life in France. The undu^ 
lating country in which we now find ourselves 
offers an infinite choice of unpleasant surround- 
ings. 

Down south, Vermelles way, the trenches 
stretch in a comparatively straight line for miles, 
facing one another squarely, and giving little op- 
portunity for tactical enterprise. The infantry 
blaze and sputter at one another in front; the guns 
roar behind; and that is all there is to be said 
about it. But here, the line follows the curve of 
each little hill. At one place you are in a salient, 
in a trench which runs round the face of a bulging 
**knowe" — a tempting target for shells of every 
kind. A few hundred yards farther north, or 
south, the ground is much lower, and the trench- 
hne runs back into a re-entrant, seeking for a posi- 
tion which shall not be commanded from higher 
ground in front. 

The line is pierced at intervals by railway- 
cuttings, which have to be barricaded, and canals, 
which require special defences. Almost every spot 
in either line is overlooked by some adjacent ridge, 
or enfiladed from some adjacent trench. It is dis- 
concerting for a methodical young officer, after 
cautiously scrutinising the trench upon his front 
through a periscope, to find that the entire per- 
formance has been visible (and his entire person 



WINTER QUARTERS 7 

exposed) to the view of a Boche trench situated 
on a hill-slope upon his immediate left. 

And our trench-line, with its infinity of salients 
and re-entrantS; is itself only part of the great 
salient of ''Wipers." You may imagine with what 
methodical solemnity the Boche ''crumps" the 
interior of that constricted area. Looking round 
at night, when the star-shells float up over the 
skyline, one could almost imagine one's self inside 
a complete circle, instead of a horseshoe. 

The machine-gunners of both sides are ex- 
tremely busy. In the plains of France the pursuit 
of their nefarious trade was practically limited to 
front-line work. When they did venture to indulge 
in what they called "overhead" fire, their friends 
in the forefront used to summon them after the 
performance, and reproachfully point out sundry 
ominous rents and abrasions in the back of the 
front-line parapet. But here they can withdraw 
behind a convenient ridge, and strafe Boches a 
mile and a half away, without causing any com- 
plaints. Needless to say, Brother Boche is not 
backward in returning the compliment. He has 
one gun in particular which never tires in its ef- 
forts to rouse us from ennui. It must be a long 
way off, for we can only just hear the report. 
Moreover, its contribution to our liveliness, when 
it does arrive, falls at an extremely steep angle — 
so steep, indeed, that it only just clears the em- 
bankment under which we live, and falls upon the 
very doorsteps of the dug-outs with which that 
sanctuary is honeycombed. 

This invigorating shower is turned on regularly 



8 ALL IN IT 

for ten minutes, at three, six, nine, and twelve 
o^clock daily. Its area of activity includes our 
tiny but, alas! steadily growing cemetery. One 
evening a regiment which had recently 'Haken 
over" selected 6 p.m. as a suitable hour for a fu- 
neral. The result was a grimly humorous spec- 
tacle — the mourners, including the Commanding 
Officer and officiating clergy, taking hasty cover 
in a truly novel trench; while the central figure 
of the obsequies, sublimely indifferent to the Hun 
and all his frightfulness, lay on the grass outside, 
calm and impassive amid the whispering hail of 
bullets. 

As for the trenches themselves — well, as the 
immortal costermonger observed, ''there ain't no 
word in the blooming language" for them. 

In the first place, there is no settled trench-line 
at all. The Sahent has been a battlefield for 
twelve months past. No one has ever had the 
time, or opportunity, to construct anything in the 
shape of permanent defences. A shallow trench, 
trimmed with an untidy parapet of sandbags, and 
there is your stronghold ! For rest and meditation, 
a hole in the ground, half -full of water and roofed 
with a sheet of galvanised iron ; or possibly a glori- 
fied rabbit-burrow in a canal-bank. These things, 
as a modern poet has observed, are all right in the 
summer-time. But winter here is a disintegrating 
season. It rains heavily for, say, three days. Two 
days of sharp frost succeed, and the rain-soaked 
earth is reduced to the necessary degree of friabil- 
ity. Another day's rain, and trenches and dug- 
outs come sHding down hke melted butter. Even 



WINTER QUARTERS 9 

if you revet the trenches, it is not easy to drain 
them. The only difference is that if your hne is 
situated on the forward slope of a hill the support 
trench drains into the firing-trench ; if they are on 
the reverse slope, the firing-trench drains into the 
support trench. Our indefatigable friends Box 
and Cox, of the Royal Engineers, assisted by 
sturdy Pioneer Battahons, labour like heroes ; but 
the utmost they can achieve, in a low-lying coun- 
try like this, is to divert as much water as possible 
into some other Brigade's area. Which they do, 
right cunningly. 

In addition to the Boche, we wage continuous 
warfare with the elements, and the various de- 
partments of Olympus render us characteristic 
assistance. The Round Game Department has 
issued a set of rules for the correct method of 
massaging and greasing the feet. (Major Wag- 
staff e refers to this as, '^ Sole-slapping; or What to 
do in the Children's Hour; complete in Twelve 
Fortnightly Parts.") The Fairy Godmother De- 
partment presents us with what the Quartermas- 
ter describes as '^ Boots, gum, thigh"; and there 
has also been an issue of so-called fur jackets, in 
which the Practical Joke Department has plainly 
taken a hand. Most of these garments appear to 
have been contributed by animals unknown to 
zoology, or more probably by a syndicate thereof. 
Corporal Mucklewame's costume gives him the 
appearance of a St. Bernard dog with Astrakhan 
fore legs. Sergeant Carfrae is attired in what 
looks like the skin of Nana, the dog-nurse in 
^' Peter Pan. " Private Nigg, an undersized youth 



10 ALL IN IT 

of bashful disposition, creeps forlornly about his 
duties disguised as an imitation leopard. As he 
passes by, facetious persons pull what is left of his 
tail. Private Tosh, on being confronted with his 
winter trousseau, observed bitterly — 

^' I jined the Airmy for tae be a sojer ; but I doot 
they must have pit me doon as a mountain goat ! " 

Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to re- 
semble an unsuccessful compromise between Esau 
and an Eskimo, they keep our bodies warm. We 
wish we could say the same for our feet. On good 
days we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occa- 
sionally over the knees. Thrice blessed then are 
our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these cannot 
altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains. 

Over the way. Brother Boche is having a bad 
time of it : his trenches are in a worse state than 
ours. Last night a plaintive voice cried out — 

^'Are you dere, Jock? Haf you whiskey? We 
haf plenty water!" 

Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided. 

There is no doubt that whatever the German 
General Staff may think about the war and the 
future, the German Infantry soldier is '^fed-up." 
His satiety takes the form of a craving for social 
intercourse with the foe. In the small hours, when 
the vigilance of the German N.C.O.'s is relaxed, 
and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, 
he makes rather pathetic overtures. We are fre- 
quently invited to come out and shake hands. 
' ' Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex' month ! ' ' 
(Evidently the Kaiser has had another revela- 
tion.) The other morning a German soldier, with 



WINTER QUARTERS 11 

a wisp of something white in his hand, actually 
clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced 
towards our lines. The distance was barely 
seventy yards. No shot was fired, but you may 
be sure that safety-catches were hastily released. 
Suddenly, in the tense silence, the ambassador's 
nerve failed him. He bolted back, followed by a 
few desultory bullets. The reason for his sudden 
panic was never rightly ascertained, but the 
weight of public opinion inclined to the view that 
Mucklewame, who had momentarily exposed 
himself above the parapet, was responsible. 

''I doot he thocht ye were a lion escapit from 
the Scottish Zoo!'' explained a brother corporal, 
referring to his indignant colleague's new winter 
coat. 

Here is another incident, with a different end- 
ing. At one point our line approaches to within 
fifteen yards of the Boche trenches. One wet and 
dismal dawn, as the battalion stood to arms in the 
neighbourhood of this delectable spot, there came 
a sudden shout from the enemy, and an outburst 
of rapid rifle fire. Almost simultaneously two 
breathless and unkempt figures tumbled over our 
parapet into the firing-trench. The fusillade died 
away. 

To the extreme discomfort and shame of a re- 
spectable citizen of Bannockburn, one Private 
Buncle, the more hairy of the two visitors, upon 
recovering his feet, promptly fiung his arms 
around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. 
The outrage was repeated, by his companion, upon 
Private Nigg. At the same time both visitors 



12 ALL IN IT 

broke into a joyous chant of ^'Russky! Russky!'' 
They were escaped Russian prisoners. 

When taken to Headquarters they explained 
that they had been brought up to perform fatigue 
work near the German trenches, and had seized 
upon a quiet moment to shp into some convenient 
undergrowth. Later, under cover of night, they 
had made their way in the direction of the firing- 
Une, arriving just in time to make a dash before 
dayUght discovered them. You may imagine 
their triumphal departure from our trenches — 
loaded with cigarettes, chocolate, bully beef, and 
other imperishable souvenirs. 

We have had other visitors. One bright day a 
Boche aeroplane made a reconnaissance of our 
lines. It was a beautiful thing, white and birdlike. 
But as its occupants were probably taking photo- 
graphs of our most secret fastnesses, artistic ap- 
preciation was dimmed by righteous wrath — 
wrath which turned to profound gratification 
when a philistine British plane appeared in the 
blue and engaged the glittering stranger in 
battle. There was some very pretty aerial ma- 
noeuvring, right over our heads, as the comba- 
tants swooped and circled for position. We could 
hear their machine-guns pattering away; and 
the volume of sound was increased by the distant 
contributions of ''Coughing Clara'' — our latest 
anti-aircraft gun, which appears to suffer from 
chronic irritation of the mucous membrane. 

Suddenly the German aeroplane gave a lurch; 
then righted herself; then began to circle down, 
making desperate efforts to cross the neutral line. 



WINTER QUARTERS 13 

But the British airman headed her off. Next 
moment she lurched again, and then took a ''nose- 
dive" straight into the British trenches. She fell 
on open ground, a few hundred yards behind our 
second line. The place had been a wilderness a 
moment before ; but the crowd which instantane- 
ously sprang up round the wreck could not have 
been less than two hundred strong. (One observes 
the same uncanny phenomenon in London, when 
a cab-horse falls down in a deserted street.) How- 
ever, it melted away at the rebuke of the first offi- 
cer who hurried to the spot, the process of dissolu- 
tion being accelerated by several bursts of Ger- 
man shrapnel. 

Both pilot and observer were dead. They had 
made a gallant fight, and were buried the same 
evening, with all honour, in the little cemetery, 
alongside many who had once been their foes, but 
were now peacefully neutral. 

IV 

The housing question in Belgium confronts us 
with several novel problems. It is not so easy to 
billet troops here, especially in the Salient, as in 
France. Some of us live in huts, others in tents, 
others in dug-outs. Others, more fortunate, are 
loaded on to a fleet of motor-buses and whisked 
off to more civilised dwelhngs many miles away. 
These buses once plied for hire upon the streets of 
London. Each bus is in charge of the identical 
pair of cross-talk comedians who controlled its 
destinies in more peaceful days. Strangely attired 
in khaki and sheepskin, they salute officers with 



14 ALL IN IT 

cheerful bonhomie, and bellow to one another 
throughout the journey the simple and primitive 
jests of their previous incarnation, to the huge 
delight of their fares. 

The destination-boards and advertisements are 
no more, for the buses are painted a neutral green 
all over; but the conductor is always ready and 
willing to tell you what his previous route was. 

^'That Daimler behind you, sir," he informs 
you, ^'is one of the Number Nineteens. Set you 
down at the top of Sloane Street many a time, I '11 
be bound. Ernie" — this to the driver, along the 
side of the bus — ''you oughter have slowed 
down when thet copper waved his Uttle flag: he 
wasn't pleased with yer, ole son!" (The ''cop- 
per" is a military mounted policeman, controlling 
the traffic of a little town which lies on our way to 
the trenches.) ''This is a Number Eight, sir. No, 
that dent in the staircase was n't done by no shell. 
The ole girl got that through a skid up against a 
lamp-post, one wet Saturday night in the Vaux- 
hall Bridge Road. Dangerous place, London!" 

We rattle through a brave little town, which is 
"carrying on" in the face of paralysed trade and 
periodical shelling. Soldiers abound. All are 
muddy, but some are muddier than others. The 
latter are going up to the trenches, the former are 
coming back. Upon the walls, here and there, we 
notice a gay poster advertising an entertainment 
organised by certain Divisional troops, which is to 
be given nightly throughout the week. At the 
foot of the bill is printed in large capitals, A 
HOOGE SUCCESS! We should like to send a 



WINTER QUARTERS 15 

copy of that plucky document to Brother Boche. 
He would not understand it, but it would annoy 
him greatly. 

Now we leave the town behind, and quicken 
up along the open road — an interminable ribbon 
of pave, absolutely straight, and bordered upon 
either side by what was once macadam, but is 
now a quagmire a foot deep. Occasionally there 
is a warning cry of ''Wire!'^ and the outside fares 
hurriedly bow from the waist, in order to avoid 
having their throats cut by a telephone wire — 
*^ Gunners, for a dollar!'' surmises a strangled 
voice — tightly stretched across the road between 
two poplars. Occasionally, too, that indefatiga- 
ble humorist, Ernie, directs his course beneath 
some low-spreading branches, through which the 
upper part of the bus crashes remorselessly, while 
the passengers, lying sardine-wise upon the roof 
uplift their voices in profane and bloodthirsty 
chorus. 

^'Nothing like a bit o' fun on the way to the 
trenches, boys! It may be the last you'll get!" is 
the only apology which Ernie offers. 

Presently our vehicle bumps across a nubbly 
bridge, and enters what was once a fair city. It is 
a walled city, like Chester, and is separated from 
the surrounding country by a moat as wiile as the 
upper Thames. In days gone by those ramparts 
and that moat could have held an army at bay — • 
and probably did, more than once. They have 
done so yet again; but at what a cost! 

We glide through the ancient gateway and 



16 ALL IN IT 

along the ghostly streets, and survey the crowning 
achievement of the cultured Boche. The great 
buildings — the Cathedral, the Cloth Hall — are 
jagged ruins. The fronts of the houses have long 
disappeared, leaving the interiors exposed to view, 
like a doll's house. Here is a street full of shops. 
That heap of splintered wardrobes and legless 
tables was once a furniture warehouse. That snug 
little corner house, with the tottering zinc counter 
and the twisted beer engine, is an obvious esta- 
minet. You may observe the sign, ^'Aux Deux 
Amis," in dingy lettering over the doorway. Here 
is an oil-and-colour shop : you can still see the red 
ochre and white lead splashed about among the 
ruins. 

In almost every house the ceilings of the upper 
floors have fallen in. Chairs, tables, and bed- 
steads hang precariously into the room below. 
Here and there a picture still adheres to the wall. 
From one of the bedposts flutters a tattered and 
diminutive garment of blue and white check — 
some little girl's frock. Where is that little girl 
now, we wonder; and has she got another frock? 

One is struck above all things with the minute 
detail of the damage. You would say that a party 
of lunatics had been let loose on the city with coal- 
hamnaers: there is hardly a square yard of any 
surface which is not pierced, or splintered, or 
dented. The whole fabric of the place lies pros- 
trate, under a shroud of broken bricks and broken 
plaster. The Hun has said in his majesty : '^ If you 
will not yield me this, the last city in the last 
corner of Belgium, I can at least see to it that 



WINTER QUARTERS 17 

not one stone thereof remains upon another. 
— So yah!" • 

Such is the appearance presented by the ven- 
erable and historic city of Ypres, after fifteen 
months of personal contact with the apostles of 
the new civilisation. Only the methodical and 
painstaking Boche could have reduced a town 
of such a size to such a state. Imagine Chester in 
a similar condition, and you may realise the num- 
ber of shells which have fallen, and are still falling, 
into the stricken city. 

But — the main point to observe is this. We 
are inside, and the Boche is outside ! Fenced by a 
mighty crescent of prosaic trenches, themselves 
manned by paladins of an almost incredible sto- 
lidity, Ypres still points her broken fingers to the 
sky — shattered, silent, but inviolate still; and 
all owing to the obstinacy of a dull and unready 
nation which merely keeps faith and stands by its 
friends. Such an attitude of mind is incomprehen- 
sible to the Boche, and we are well content that 
it should be so. 



II 

SHELL OUT I 
I 

This, according to our latest subaltern from home, 
is the title of a revue which is running in Town; 
but that is a mere coincidence. The entertain- 
ment to which I am now referring took place in 
Flanders, and the leading parts were assigned to 
distinguished members of ''K (1)." 

The scene was the Chateau de Grandbois, or 
some other kind of Bois; possibly Vert. Not that 
we called it that : we invariably referred to it after- 
wards as Hush Hall, for reasons which will be set 
forth in due course. 

One morning, while sojourning in what Olym- 
pus humorously calls a rest-camp, — a collection 
of antiquated wigwams half submerged in a mud- 
flat, — we received the intelligence that we were 
to extricate ourselves forthwith, and take over a 
fresh sector of trenches. The news was doubly un- 
welcome, because, in the first place, it is always 
unpleasant to face the prospect of trenches of any 
kind ; and secondly, to take over strange trenches 
in the dead of a winter night is an experience 
which borders upon nightmare — the hot-lobster- 
and-toasted-cheese variety. 

The opening stages of this enterprise are almost 
rituahstic in their formality. First of all, the Bri- 
gade Staff which is coming in visits theHeadquar- 



SHELL OUT! 19 

ters of the Brigade which is going out — usually a 
chateau or farm somewhere in rear of the trenches 
— and makes the preliminary arrangements. Af- 
ter that the Conmianding Officers and Company 
Commanders of the incoming battalions visit 
their own particular section of the line. They are 
shown over the premises by the outgoing tenants, 
who make little or no attempt to conceal their 
satisfaction at the expiration of their lease. The 
Colonels and the Captains then return to camp, 
with depressing tales of crumbling parapets, noi- 
some dug-outs, and positions open to enfilade. 

On the day of the relief various advance parties 
go up, keeping under the lee of hedges and em- 
bankments, and marching in single file. (At least, 
that is what they are supposed to do. If not ruth- 
lessly shepherded, they will advance in fours along 
the skyline.) Having arrived, they take over such 
positions as can be relieved by daylight in com- 
parative safety. They also take over trench- 
stores, and exchange trench-gossip. The latter is 
a fearsome and uncanny thing. It usually begins 
life at the '^ refilling point," where the A.S.C. 
motor-lorries dump down next day's rations, and 
the regimental transport picks them up. 

An A.S.C. Sergeant mentions casually to a regi- 
mental Quartermaster that he has heard it said at 
the Supply Depot that heavy firing has been going 
on in the Channel. The Quartermaster, on return- 
ing to the Transport Lines, observes to his Quar- 
termaster-Sergeant that the German Fleet has 
come out at last. The Quartermaster-Sergeant, 
when he meets the ration parties behind the lines 



20 ALL IN IT 

that night, announces to a platoon Sergeant that 
we have won a great naval victory. The platoon 
Sergeant, who is suffering from trench feet and is a 
constant reader of a certain pessimistic halfpenny 
journal, replies gloomily: "We'll have had heavy 
losses oorselves, too, I doot!" This observation is 
overheard by various members of the ration party. 
By midnight several hundred yards of the firing- 
line know for a fact that there has been a naval 
disaster of the first magnitude off the coast of a place 
which every one calls Gaily Polly, and that the 
whole of our Division are to be transferred forth- 
with to the Near East to stem the tide of calamity. 
Still, we must have something to chat about. 

Meanwhile Brigade Majors and Adjutants, 
holding a stumpy pencil in one hand and a burn- 
ing brow in the other, are composing Operation 
Orders which shall effect the relief, without — 

(1) Leaving some detail — the bombers, or the 
snipers, or the sock-driers, or the pea-soup experts 
— unreheved altogether. 

(2) Causing relievers and reheved to meet vio- 
lently together in some constricted fairway. 

(3) Trespassing into some other Brigade Area. 
(This is far naore foolhardy than to wander into 
the German lines.) 

(4) Getting shelled. 

Pitfall Number One is avoided by keeping a 
permanent and handy list of ''all the people who 
do funny things on their own" (as the vulgar 
throng call the ''specialists"), and checking it 
carefully before issuing Orders. 



SHELL OUT! 21 

Number Two is dealt with by issuing a strict 
time-table, which might possibly be adhered to by 
a well-drilled flock of archangels, in broad day- 
light, upon good roads, and under peace condi- 
tions. 

Number Three is provided for by copious and 
complicated map references. 

Number Four is left to Providence — and is 
usually the best-conducted feature of the excur- 
sion. 

Under cover of night the Battalion sets out, in 
comparatively small parties. They form a strange 
procession. The men wear their trench-costume 
— thigh-boots (which do not go well with a kilt), 
variegated coats of skins, and woollen nightcaps. 
Stuffed under their belts and through their packs 
they carry newspapers, broken staves for fire- 
wood, parcels from home, and sandbags loaded 
with mysterious comforts. A dilapidated parrot 
and a few goats are all that is required to complete 
the picture of Robinson Crusoe changing camp. 

Progress is not easy. It is a pitch-black night. 
By day, this road (and all the countryside) is a 
wilderness : nothing more innocent ever presented 
itself to the eye of an inquisitive aeroplane. But 
after nightfall it is packed with troops and trans- 
port, and not a Hght is shown. If you can imagine 
what the Mansion House crossing would be like if 
called upon to sustain its midday traffic at mid- 
night — the Mansion House crossing entirely un- 
illuminated, paved with twelve inches of Uquid 
mud, intersected by narrow strips of pave, and 
liberally pitted with ''crump-holes" — you may 



22 ALL IN IT 

derive some faint idea of the state of things at a 
busy road-junction lying behind the trenches. 

Until reaching what is facetiously termed 'Hhe 
shell area'' — as if any spot in this benighted dis- 
trict were not a shell area — the troops plod along 
in fours at the right of the road. If they can 
achieve two miles an hour, they do well. At any 
moment they may be called upon to halt, and 
crowd into the roadside, while a transport-train 
passes carrying rations, and coke, and what is 
called '^R.E. material" — this may be anything 
from a bag of nails to steel girders nine feet long — 
up to the firing-line. When this procession, con- 
sisting of a dozen limbered waggons, drawn by 
four mules and headed by a profane person on 
horseback — the Transport Officer — has rum- 
bled past, the Company, which has been standing 
respectfully in the ditch, enjoying a refreshing 
shower-bath of mud and hoping that none of the 
steel girders are projecting from the limber more 
than a yard or two, sets out once more upon its 
way — only to take hasty cover again as sounds 
of fresh and more animated traffic are heard ap- 
proaching from the opposite direction. There is 
no mistaking the nature of this cavalcade: the 
long vista of glowing cigarette-ends tells an unmis- 
takable tale. These are artillery waggons, return- 
ing empty from replenishing the batteries; scat- 
tering homely jests like hail, and proceeding, 
wherever possible, at a hand-gallop. He is a 
cheery soul, the R.A. driver, but his interpreta- 
tion of the rules of the road requires drastic 
revision. 



SHELL OUT! 23 

Sometimes an axle breaks, or a waggon side- 
slips off the pave into the morass reserved for 
infantry, and overturns. The result is a block, 
which promptly extends forward and back for a 
couple of miles. A peculiarly British chorus of 
inquiry and remonstrance — a blend of biting 
sarcasm and blasphemous humour — surges up 
and down the line; until plunging mules are un- 
yoked, and the offending vehicle man-handled out 
of sight into the inky blackness by the roadside; 
or, in extreme cases, is annihilated with axes. 
Everything has to make way for a ration train. 
To crown all, it is more than likely that the calm- 
ness and smooth working of the proceedings will 
be assisted by a burst of shrapnel overhead. It is a 
most amazing scrimmage altogether. One of those 
members of His Majesty's Opposition who are 
doing so much at present to save our country from 
destruction, by kindly pointing out the mistakes 
of the British Government and the British Army, 
would refer to the whole scene as a pandemonium 
of mismanagement and ineptitude. And yet, 
though the scene is enacted night after night 
without a break, there is hardly a case on record 
of the transport being surprised upon these roads 
by the coming of daylight, and none whatever 
of the rations and ammunition failing to get 
through. 

It is difficult to imagine that Brother Boche, 
who on the other side of that ring of star-shells is 
conducting a precisely similar undertaking, is 
able, with all his perfect organisation and cast- 
iron methods, to achieve a result in any way su- 



24 ALL IN IT 

perior to that which Thomas Atkins reaches by 
rule of thumb and sheer force of character. 

At length the draggled Company worms its 
way through the press to the fringe of the shell- 
area, beyond which no transport may pass. The 
distance of this point from the trenches varies 
considerably, and depends largely upon the ca- 
price of the Boche. On this occasion, however, 
we still have a mile or two to go — across country 
now, in single file, at the heels of a guide from the 
battalion which we are relieving. 

Guides may be divided into two classes — 

(1) Guides who do not know the way, and say 
so at the outset. 

(2) Guides who do not know the way, but leave 
it to you to discover the fact. 

There are no other kinds of guides. 

The pace is down to a mile an hour now, except 
in the case of men in the tail of the line, who are 
running rapidly. It is a curious but quite inexpli- 
cable fact that if you set a hundred men to march 
in single file in the dark, though the leading man 
may be crawling like a tortoise, the last man is 
compelled to proceed at a profane double if he is 
to avoid being left behind and lost. 

Still, everybody gets there somehow, and in due 
course the various Company Commanders are 
enabled to telephone to their respective Battalion 
Headquarters the information that the Relief is 
completed. For this relief, much thanks! 

After that the outgoing Battalion files slowly 
out, and the newcomers are left gloomily con- 



SHELL OUT! 25 

templating their new abiding-place, and observ- 
ing— 

'^I wonder if there is any Division in the whole 
blessed Expeditionary Force, besides ours, which 
ever does a single damn thing to keep its trenches 
in repair! 



•\'' 



II 

All of which brings us back to Hush Hall, where 
the Headquarters of the outgoing Brigade are 
handing over to their successors. 

Hush Hall, or the Chateau de Quelquechose, is 
a modern country house, and once stood up white 
and gleaming in all its brave finery of stucco, con- 
servatories, and ornamental lake, amid a pleasant 
wood not far from a main road. It is such a house 
as you might find round about Guildford or Hind- 
head. There are many in this fair countryside, 
but few are inhabited now, and none by their 
rightful owners. They are all marked on the map, 
and the Boche gunners are assiduous map-read- 
ers. Hush Hall has got off comparatively lightly. 
It is still habitable, and well furnished. The roof 
is demolished upon the side most exposed to the 
enemy, and many of the trees in the surrounding 
wood are broken and splintered by shrapnel. Still, 
provided the weather remains passable, one can 
live there. Upon the danger-side the windows are 
closed and shuttered. Weeds grow apace in the 
garden. No smoke emerges from the chimneys. 
(If it does, the Mess Corporal hears about it from 
the Staff Captain.) A few strands of barbed wire 
obstruct the passage of those careless or adven- 



26 ALL IN IT 

turous persons who may desire to explore the for- 
bidden side of the house. The front door is bolted 
and barred: visitors, after approaching stealthily 
along the lee of a hedge, like travellers of dubious 
bona fides on a Sunday afternoon, enter unobtru- 
sively by the back door, which is situated on the 
blind side of the chateau. Their path thereto is 
beset by imploring notices like the following : — 



THE SLIGHTEST MOVEMENT DRAWS SHELL 
FIRE. KEEP CLOSE TO THE HEDGE 



A later hand has added the following moving 
postscript : — 



WE LIVE HERE. YOU DON'T! 



It was the Staff Captain who was responsible 
for the rechristening of the establishment. 

"What sort of place is this new palace we are 
going to doss in?" inquired the Machine-Gun 
Officer, when the Staff Captain returned from his 
preliminary visit. 

The Staff Captain, who was a man of a few 
words, replied — 

''It's the sort of shanty where everybody goes 
about in felt slippers, saying 'Hush!'" 

Brigade Headquarters — this means the Briga- 
dier, the Brigade Major, the Staff Captain, the 



SHELL OUT! 27 

Machine-Gun Officer, the Signal Officer, mayhap 
a Padre and a Liaison Officer, accompanied by a 
mixed multitude of clerks, telegraphists, and scul- 
lions — arrived safely at their new quarters under 
cover of night, and were hospitably received by 
the outgoing tenants, who had finished their eve- 
ning meal and were girded up for departure. In 
fact, the Machine-Gun Officer, Liaison Officer, 
and Padre had already gone, leaving their seniors 
to hold the fort till the last. The Signal Officer 
was down in the cellar, handing over ohms, am- 
peres, short-circuits, and other mysterious trench- 
stores to his ^^ opposite number." 

Upon these occasions there is usually a good 
deal of time to fill in between the arrival of the 
new brooms and the departure of the old. This 
period of waiting may be likened to that some- 
what anxious interval with which frequenters of 
race-courses are familiar, between the finish of the 
race and the announcement of the '^All Right!" 
The outgoing Headquarters are waiting for the 
magic words — ^'Relief Complete!" Until that 
message comes over the buzzer, the period of ten- 
sion endures. The main point of difference is that 
the gentleman who has staked his fortune on the 
legs of a horse has only to wait a few minutes for 
the confirmation of his hopes; while a Brigadier, 
whose bedtime (or even breakfast-time) is at the 
mercy of an errant platoon, may have to sit up all 
night. 

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable," 
said A Brigade to X Brigade. 

X Brigade complied, and having been furnished 



28 ALL IN IT 

with refreshment, led off with the inevitable 
question — 

''Does one — er — get shelled much here?'' 

There was a reassuring coo from A Brigade. 

''Oh, no. This is a very healthy spot. One has 
to be careful, of course. No movement, or fires, or 
anything of that kind. A sentry or two, to warn 
people against approaching over the open by day, 
and you '11 be ascooshie as anything! " (" Cooshie" 
is the latest word here. That and "crump.") 

"I ought to warn you of one thing," said the 
Brigadier. "Owing to the surrounding woods, 
sound is most deceptive here. You will hear shell- 
bursts which appear quite close, when in reality 
they are quite a distance away. That, for in- 
stance!" — as a shell exploded apparently just 
outside the window. "That little fellow is a 
couple of hundred yards away, in the corner of 
the wood. The Boche has been groping about 
there for a battery for the last two days." 

"Is the battery there?" inquired a voice. 

"No; it is farther east. But there is a Gunner's 
Mess about two hundred yards from here, in 
that house which you passed on the way up." 

"Oh!" observed X Brigade. 

Gunners are pecuhar people. When profes- 
sionally engaged, no men could be more retiring. 
They screen their operations from the public gaze 
with the utmost severity, shrouding batteries in 
screens of fohage and other rustic disguises. If a 
layman strays anyrv^here near one of these arbo- 
real retreats, a gunner thrusts out a visage en- 
flamed with righteous wrath, and curses him for 



SHELL OUT! 29 

giving the position away. But in his hours of re- 
laxation the gunner is a different being. He billets 
himself in a house with plenty of windows : he il- 
luminates all these by night, and hangs washing 
therefrom by day. When inclined for exercise, he 
goes for a promenade across an open space labelled 
— ^'Not to be used by troops by daylight." 
Therefore, despite his technical excellence and 
superb courage, he is an uncomfortable neighbour 
for establishments like Hush Hall. 

In this respect he offers a curious contrast to 
the Sapper. Off duty, the Sapper is the most un- 
obtrusive of men — a cave-man, in fact. He bur- 
rows deep into the earth, or the side of a hill, and 
having secured the roof of this cavern against 
direct hits by ingenious contrivances of his own 
manufacture, constructs a suite of furniture of a 
solid and enduring pattern, and lives the hfe of a 
comfortable recluse. But when engaged in the 
pursuit of his calKng, the Sapper is the least retir- 
ing of men. The immemorial tradition of the great 
Corps to which he belongs has ordained that no 
fire, however fierce, must be allowed to interfere 
with a Sapper in the execution of his duty. This 
rule is usually interpreted by the Sapper to mean 
that you must not perform your allotted task un- 
der cover when it is possible to do so under fire. 
To this is added, as a rider, that in the absence of 
an adequate supply of fire, you must draw fire. 
So the Sapper walks cheerfully about on the tops 
of parapets, hugging large and conspicuous pieces 
of timber, or clashing together sheets of corru- 
gated iron, as happy as a king. 



30 ALL IN IT 

^'You will find this house quite snug/' contin- 
ued the Brigadier. ''The eastern suite is to be 
avoided, because there is no roof there; and if it 
rains outside for a day, it rains in the best bed- 
room for a week. There is a big kitchen in the 
basement, with a capital range. That's all, I 
think. The chief thing to avoid is movement of 
any kind. The leaves are coming off the trees 
now — " 

At this moment an orderly entered the room 
with a pink telegraph message. 

''Relief complete, sir!" announced the Brigade 
Major, reading it. 

"Good work!" replied both Brigadiers, looking 
at their watches simultaneously, "considering the 
state of the country." The Brigadier of "A" rose 
to his feet. 

"Now we can pass along quietly," he said. 
"Good luck to you. By the way, take care of 
Edgar, won't you? Any little attention which you 
can show him will be greatly appreciated." 

"WTio is Edgar?" 

"Oh, I thought the Staff Captain would have 
told you. Edgar. is the swan — the last of his race, 
I'm afraid, so far as this place is concerned. He 
lives on the lake, and usually comes ashore to 
draw his rations about lunch-time. He is inchned 
to be stand-offish on one side, as he has only one 
eye; but he is most affable on the other. Well, 
now to find our horses!" 

As the three officers departed down the back- 
door steps, a hesitating voice followed them — 

"H'm! Is there any place where one can go — 



SHELL OUT! 31 

a cellar, or any old spot of that kind — just in 
case we are — '^ 

^' Bless you, you'll be all right! " was the cheery 
reply. (The outgoing Brigade is always exces- 
sively cheery.) ''But there are dug-outs over 
there — in the garden. They have n't been occu- 
pied for some months, so you may find them a bit 
ratty. You won't require them, though. Good- 
night!" 

Ill 

■i 

Whizz! Boom! Bang! Crash! Wump! 

"It's just as well," mused the Brigade Major, 
turning in his sleep about three o'clock the follow- 
ing morning, "that they warned us about the de- 
ceptive sound of the shelling here. One would 
almost imagine that it was quite close. . . . That 
last one was heavy stuff : it shook the whole place ! 
. . . This is a topping mattress : it would be rotten 
having to take to the woods again after getting 
into really cooshie quarters at last. . . . There 
they go again!" as a renewed tempest of shells 
rent the silence of night. "That old battery must 
be getting it in the neck! . . . Hallo, I could have 
sworn something hit the roof that time! A loose 
slate, I expect! Anyhow . . ." 

The Brigade Major, who had had a very long 
day, turned over and went to sleep again. 

IV 

The next morning, a Sunday, broke bright and 
clear. Contrary to his usual habit, the Brigade 
Major took a stroll in the garden before breakfast. 



32 ALL IN IT 

The first object which caught his eye, as he came 
down the back-door steps, was the figure of the 
Staff Captain, brooding pensively over a large 
crater, close to the hedge. The Brigade Major 
joined him. 

''I wonder if that was there yesterday!" he ob- 
served, referring to the crater. 

''Could n't have been," growled the Staff Cap- 
tain. ''We walked to the house along this very 
hedge. No craters then!" 

"True!" agreed the Brigade Major amiably. 
He tiu-ned and surveyed the garden. "That lawn 
looks a bit of a golf course. What lovely bunk- 
ers!" 

"They appear to be quite new, too," remarked 
the Staff Captain thoughtfully. "Come to break- 
fast!" 

On their way back they found the Brigadier, 
the Machine-Gun Officer, and the Padre, gazing 
silently upward. 

"I wonder when that corner of the house got 
knocked off," the M.G.O. was observing. 

"Fairly recently, I should say," replied the 
Brigadier. 

"Those marks beside your bedroom window, 
sir, — they look pretty fresh!" interpolated the 
Padre, a sincere but somewhat tactless Christian. 

Brigade Headquarters regarded one another 
with dubious smiles. 

"I wonder j^^ began a tentative voice, "if those 
fellows last night were indulging in a leg-pull — 
what is called in this country a tire-jamhe — when 
they assured us — " 



SHELL OUT! 33 

Whoo-oo-oo-oo-ump ! 

A shell came shrieking over the tree-tops, and 
fell with a tremendous splash into the geometrical 
centre of the lake, fifty yards away. 

For the next two hours, shrapnel, '^whizz- 
bangs,'^ '^ Silent Susies," and other explosive wild- 
fowl raged round the walls of Hush Hall. The 
inhabitants thereof, some twenty persons in all, 
were gathered in various apartments on the lee 
side. 

''It is still possible," remarked the Brigadier, 
lighting his pipe, "that they are not aiming at us. 
However, it is just as inconvenient to be buried 
by accident as by design. As soon as the first 
direct hit is registered upon this imposing fabric, 
we will retire to the dug-outs. Send word to the 
kitchen that every one is to be ready to clear out 
of the house when necessary." 

Next moment there came a resounding crash, 
easily audible above the tornado raging in the 
garden, followed by the sound of splintering glass. 
Hush Hall rocked. The Mess waiter appeared. 

"A shell has just came in through the dining- 
room window, sirr," he informed the Mess Presi- 
dent, "and broke three of they new cups!" 

"How tiresome!" said the Brigadier. "Dug- 
outs, everybody!" 



There were no casualties, which was rather 
miraculous. Late in the afternoon Brigade Head- 
quarters ventured upon another stroll in the gar- 



34 ALL IN IT 

den. The tumult had ceased, and the setting Sab- 
bath sun glowed peacefully upon the battered 
countenance of Hush Hall. The damage was not 
very extensive, for the house was stoutly built. 
Still, two bedrooms, recently occupied, were a 
wreck of broken glass and splintered plaster, while 
the gravel outside was littered with lead sheeting 
and twisted chimney-cans. The shell which had 
aroused the indignation of the Mess waiter by 
entering the dining-room window, had in reality 
hit the ground directly beneath it. Six feet higher, 
and the Brigadier's order to clear the house would 
have been entirely superfluous. 

The Brigade Major and the Staff Captain sur- 
veyed the unruffled surface of the lake — a haunt 
of ancient peace in the rays of the setting sun. 
Upon the bosom thereof floated a single, majestic, 
one-eyed swan, performing intricate toilet exer- 
cises. It was Edgar. 

''He must have a darned good dug-out some- 
where!" observed the Brigade Major enviously. 



Ill 

WINTER sports: VARIOUS 
I 

Hush Hall having become an even less desirable 
place of residence than had hitherto been thought 
possible, Headquarters very sensibly sent for 
their invaluable friends, Box and Cox, of the 
Royal Engineers, and requested that they would 
proceed to make the place proof against shells and 
weather, forthwith, if not sooner. 

Those phlegmatic experts made a thorough in- 
vestigation of the resources of the establishment, 
and departed mysteriously, after the fashion of 
the common plumber of civilisation, into space. 
Three days later they returned, accompanied by a 
horde of acolytes, who, with characteristic con- 
tempt for the pathetic appeals upon the notice- 
boards, proceeded to dump down lumber, sand- 
bags, and corrugated iron roofing in the most 
exposed portions of the garden. 

This done, some set out to shore up the ceilings 
of the basement with mighty battens of wood, and 
to convert that region into a nest of cunningly de- 
vised bedrooms. Others reinforced the flooring 
above with a layer of earth and brick rubble three 
feet deep. On the top of all this they relaid not 
only the original floor, but eke the carpet. 

^^The only difference from before, sir,^' ex- 
plained Box to the admiring Staff Captain, ''is 



36 ALL IN IT 

that people will have to walk up three steps to get 
into the dining-room now, instead of going in on 
the level." 

''I wonder what the Marquise de Chilquichose 
will think of it all when she returns to her ances- 
tral home," mused the Staff Captain. 

^'If anything," maintained the invincible Box, 
^'we have improved it for her. For example, she 
can now light the chandelier without standing on 
a chair — without getting up from table, in fact ! 
However, to resume. The fireplace, you will ob- 
serve, has not been touched. I have left a sort of 
well in the floor all round it, lined with some stuff 
I found in Mademoiselle's room. At least," added 
Box coyly, "I think it must have been Mademoi- 
selle's room ! You can sit in the well every evening 
after supper. The walls of this room" — prod- 
ding the same — ''are lined with sandbags, cov- 
ered with tapestry. Pretty artistic — what?" 

''Extremely," agreed the Staff Captain. "You 
will excuse my raising the point, I know, but can 
the apartment now be regarded as shell-proof?" 

"Against everything but a direct hit. I 
would n't advise you to sleep on this floor much, 
but you could have your meals here all right. 
Then, if the Boche starts putting over heavy 
stuff, you can pop down into the basement and 
have your dessert in bed. You'll be absolutely 
safe there. In fact, the more the house tumbles 
down the safer you will be. It will only make your 
protection shell thicker. So if you hear heavy 
thuds overhead, don't be alarmed!" 

I won't," promised the Staff Captain. "I 



Cl 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 37 

shall lie in bed, drinking a nice hot cup of tea, and 
wondering whether the last crash was the kitchen 
chimney, or only the drawing-room piano coming 
down another storey. Now show me my room." 

^^We have had to put you in the larder," ex- 
plained Box apologetically, as he steered his guest 
through a forest of struts with an electric torch. 
^^At least, I think it's the larder: it has a sort of 
meaty smell. The General is in the dairy — a 
lovely little suite, with white tiles. The Brigade 
Major has the scullery: it has a sink, so is practi- 
cally as good as a flat in Park Place. I have run 
up cubicles for the others in the kitchen. Here is 
your little cot. It is only six feet by four, but you 
can dress in the garden." 

''It's a sweet little nest, dear!" replied the Staff 
Captain, quite hypnotised by this time. " I '11 just 
get my maid to put me into something loose, and 
then I '11 run along to your room, and we '11 have a 
nice cosy gossip together before dinner!" 

In due course we removed our effects from the 
tottering and rat-ridden dug-outs in which we had 
taken sanctuary during the shelling, and prepared 
to settle down for the winter in our new quarters. 

"We might be very much worse off!" we ob- 
served the first evening, listening to the comfort- 
ably muffled sounds of shells overhead. 

And we were right. Three days later we re- 
ceived an intimation from the Practical Joke De- 
partment that we were to evacuate our present 
sector of trenches (including Hush Hall) forth- 
with, and occupy another part of the line. 



38 ALL IN IT 

In all Sports, Winter and Summer, the suprem- 
acy of the Practical Joke Department is unchal- 
lenged. 

II 

Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants 
are beguiling the time in their several ways. 

Let us take the reserve line first — the lair of 
Battalion Headquarters and its appurtenances. 
Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is occupied 
in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to 
avoid the effects of a bombardment. But a good 
amount — an increasing amount — of it is de- 
voted to the contemplation of our own shells 
bursting over the Boche trenches. Gone are the 
days during which we used to sit close and ^' stick 
it out," consoling ourselves with the vague hope 
that by the end of the week our gunners might 
possibly have garnered sufficient ammunition to 
justify a few brief hours' retaliation. The boot is 
on the other leg now. For every Boche battery 
that opens on us, two or three of ours thunder 
back a reply — and that without any delays other 
than those incidental to the use of that maddening 
instrument, the field-telephone. During the past 
six months neither side has been able to boast 
much in the way of ground actually gained; but 
the moral ascendancy — the initiative — the of- 
fensive — call it what you will — has changed 
hands; and no one knows it better than the 
Boche. We are the attacking party now. 

The trenches in this country are not arranged 
with such geometric precision as in France. For 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 39 

instance, the reserve line is not always connected 
with the firing-lines by a communication-trench. 
Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits 
to the fire-trenches — Battalion Commanders, 
Gunner and Sapper officers, an occasional Staff 
Officer, and an occasional most devoted Padre — 
perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes 
they skirt a wood or hedge, sometimes they keep 
under the lee of an embankment, sometimes they 
proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution 
of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit 
down in the nearest shell-crater the moment the 
music — in the form of a visitation of ^'whizz- 
bangs" — strikes up. 

It is difficult to say which kind of weather is 
least favourable to this enterprise. On sunny days 
one's movements are visible to Boche observers 
upon distant summits; while on foggy days the 
Boche gunners, being able to see nothing at all, 
amuse themselves by generous and unexpected 
contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy 
weather is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of 
the wind in the trees makes it difficult to hear the 
shell approaching. Days of heavy rain are the 
most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners 
are too busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry 
their heads over adventurous pedestrians. One 
learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular 
danger-spots. For instance, the southeast cbrner 
of that wood, where a reserve company are dug in, 
is visited by '' Silent Susans" for about five min- 
utes each noontide : it is therefore advisable to se- 
lect some other hour for one's daily visit. (Silent 



AO ALL IN IT 

Susan, by the way, is not a desirable member of 
the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she 
arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts 
with a perfectly stunning detonation and a shower 
of small shrapnel bullets.) There is a fixed rifle- 
battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a 
time, down the main street of the ruined and de- 
serted village named Vrjoozlehem, through which 
one must pass on the way to the front-line 
trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delect- 
able spot, one shapes a laborious course through a 
series of back yards and garden-plots, littered 
with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing 
the rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. 
The mention of Vrjoozlehem — that is not its 
real name, but a simplified form of it — brings to 
our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fash- 
ion in which the British Army has taken Belgian 
institutions under its wing. Nomenclature, for 
instance. In France we make no attempt to inter- 
fere with this : we content ourselves with devising 
a pronounceable variation of the existing name. 
For example, if a road is called La Rue de Bois, 
we simply call it ^^Roodiboys," and leave it at 
that. On the same principle, Etaples is modified 
to '^Eatables," and Sailly-la-Bourse to '^ Sally 
Booze." But in Belgium more drastic procedure is 
required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronounc- 
ing difficult names, but even he is unable to con- 
tend with words composed almost entirely of the 
letters j, z, and v. So our resourceful Ordnance 
Department has issued maps — admirable maps 
— upon which the outstanding features of the 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 41 

landscape are marked in plain figures. But in- 
stead of printing the original place-names, they 
pat ^^ Moated Grange," or ^^Clapham Junc- 
tion," or ''Dead Dog Farm," which simplifies 
ma^tters beyond all possibility of error. (The sys- 
tem was once responsible, though, for an unjust if 
unintentional aspersion upon the character of a 
worthy man. The CO. of a certain battalion had 
occasion to complain to those above him of the 
remissness of one of his chaplains. ''He's a lazy 
beggar, sir," he said. "Over and over again I have 
told him to come up and show himself in the 
front-line trenches, but he never seems to be able 
to get past Leicester Square!") 

The naming of the trenches themselves has 
been left largely to local enterprise. An observant 
person can tell, by a study of the numerous name- 
boards, which of his countrymen have been occu- 
pying the line during the past six months. 
"Grainger Street" and "Jesmond Dene" give 
direct evidence of "Canny N' castle." "Sher- 
wood Avenue" and "Notts Forest" have a Mid- 
land flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is 
required to decide who labelled two communica- 
tion trenches "The Gorbals" and "Coocaddens" 
respectively ! 

Some names have obviously been bestowed by 
officers, as "Sackville Street," "The Albany," 
and ' ' Burlington Arcade ' ' denote. ' ' Pinch-Gut ' ^ 
and " Crab-Crawl " speak for themselves. So does 
"Vermin Villa." Other localities, again, have 
obviously been labelled by persons endowed with 
a nice gift of irony. ' ' Sanctuary Wood " is the last 



42 ALL IN IT 

place on earth where any one would dream of tak- 
ing sanctuary; while ^' Lovers^ Walk/^ which 
bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions 
of the choicest brand of Boche ''hate." 

And so on. But one day, when the War is over, 
and this mighty trench-hne is thrown open to the 
disciples of the excellent Mr. Cook — as undoubt- 
edly it will be — care should be taken that these 
street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It 
would be impossible to select a more characteristic 
and fitting memorial to the brave hearts who con- 
structed them — too many of whom are sleeping 
their last sleep within a few yards of their own 
cheerful handiwork. 

Ill 

After this digression we at length reach the 
firing-line. It is quite unlike anything of its kind 
that we have hitherto encountered. It is situated 
in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well- 
defined trenches run through the undergrowth, 
from which the sentries of either side have been 
keeping relentless watch upon one another, night 
and day, for many months. The wood itself is a 
mere forest of poles: hardly a branch, and not a 
twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In the no- 
man's-land between the trenches the poles have 
been reduced to mere stumps a few inches high. 

It is behind the firing-trench that the most 
unconventional scene presents itself. Strictly 
speaking, there ought to be — and generally is — 
a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the 
first. This should be occupied by all troops not 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 43 

required in the firing-trench. But the trench is 
empty — which is not altogether surprising, con- 
sidering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful 
occupants are scattered through the wood behind 
— in dug-outs, in redoubts, or en plein air — 
cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. 
The whole scene suggests a gipsy encampment 
rather than a fortified post. A hundred yards 
away, through the trees, you can plainly discern 
the Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that 
trench can discern you: yet never a shot comes. 
It is true that bullets are humming through the air 
and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due 
to the enterprise of distant machine-guns and 
rifle-batteries, firing from some position well 
adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or 
none. In the front-line trenches, at least. Brother 
Boche has had enough of it. His motto now is, 
^' Live and let live ! " In fact, he frequently makes 
plaintive statements to that effect in the silence 
of night. 

You might think, then, that life in Willow 
Grove would be a tranquil affair. But if you look 
up among the few remaining branches of that tall 
tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice 
shreds of some material flapping in the breeze. 
Those are sandbags — or were. Last night, within 
the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into 
this wood, and the first of them registered a direct 
hit upon the dug-out of which those sandbags 
formed part. There were eight men in that dug- 
out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first 
few minutes, and there was some delay before 



44 ALL IN IT 

word could be transmitted back to Headquarters. 
Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until the 
enemy's batteries (probably in response to an ur- 
gent appeal from their own front line) ceased fir- 
ing. Thereupon ''A" Company, who at Bobby 
Little's behest had taken immediate cover in the 
water-logged support-trench, returned stolidly to 
their dug-outs in Willow Grove. Death, when he 
makes the mistake of raiding your premises every 
day, loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of 
a bore. 

This morning the Company presents its normal 
appearance: its numbers have been reduced by 
eight — c^est tout I It may be some one else's turn 
to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here 
for. Anyhow, we are keeping the Boches out of 
''Wipers," and a bit over. So we stretch our legs 
in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the 
next emergency. 

Let us approach a group of four which is squat- 
ting sociably round a small and inadequate fire of 
twigs, upon which four mess-tins are simmering. 
The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, 
together with Privates Buncle and Nigg, prepar- 
ing their midday meal. 

''Tak' off your damp chup, Jimmy," suggested 
Tosh to Buncle, who was officiating as stoker. 
''Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?" 

"It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer," 
rejoined Buncle cantankerously. 

(It may here be explained, at the risk of an- 
other digression, that no length of association or 
degree of intimacy will render the average British 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 45 

soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The 
Colonel is ^^The CO."; the Second in Command 
is ^'The Major''; your Company Commander is 
^^The Captain/' and your Platoon Commander 
'^The Officer." As for all others of commissioned 
rank in the regiment, some twenty-four in all, 
they are as nought. With the exception of the 
Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of 
the rank and file hopes one day to stand, they 
simply do not exist.) 

'^Onyway," pursued the careful Tosh, ^^he said 
that if any smoke was shown, all fires was tae be 
pitten 00 1. So mind and see no' to get a cauld 
dinner for us all, Jimmy!" 

^' Cauld or het," retorted the gentleman ad- 
dressed, ''it's little dinner I'll be gettin' this day! 
And ye ken fine why!" he added darkly. 

Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his 
lower lip and sighed patiently. 

''For the last time," he announced, with the air 
of a righteous man suffering long, "I did not lay 
ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!" 

"Maybe," countered the bereaved Buncle 
swiftly, "you did not lay your hand upon it; but 
you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie! " 

"I never pit ma hand on it!" repeated Tosh 
doggedly. 

"No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with 
your foot," replied the inflexible Buncle. 

"Or got some other body tae luft it for him!" 
suggested Private Nigg, looking hard at Tosh's 
habitual accomplice. Cosh. 

"I had it pitten in an auld envelope from 



46 ALL IN IT 

hame, addressed with my name/* continued the 
mourner. '^It couldna hae got oot o* that by 
accident!'* 

'^ Weel," interposed Cosh, with forced geniahty, 
'4t 's no a thing tae argie-bargie aboot. Whatever 
body lufted it, it's awa' by this time. It's a fine 
day, boys!" 

This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation 
to a less controversial plane met with no encour- 
agement. Private Buncle, refusing to be ap- 
peased, replied sarcastically — 

^'Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, 
especially when the shellin' was gaun on! Es- 
pecially in number seeven dug-oot!" 

There was a short silence. Number seven dug- 
out was no more, and five of its late occupants 
were now lying under their waterproof sheets, not 
a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Pres- 
ently, however, the pacific Cosh, who in his hours 
of leisure was addicted to mild philosophical ru- 
mination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation. 

^'Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. ''They 
say that in a war every man has a bullet waiting 
for him some place or other, with his name on it! 
Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He 
sucked his teeth reflectively, and glanced towards 
the Field Ambulance. ''Sooner or later!" 

"What for would he pit his name on it, 
WuUy?" inquired Nigg, who was not very quick 
at grasping allusions. 

"He wouldna pit on the name himself," ex- 
plained the philosopher. ' ' What I mean is, there 's 
a bullet for each one of us somewhere over there" 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 47 

— he jerked his head eastward — ^4n a Gairman 
pooch/' 

''What way could a Gairman pit my name on 
a bullet?" demanded Nigg triumphantly. ''He 
doesna ken it!" 

"Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his 
philosophic calm, "can ye no unnerstand that 
what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'? 
When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I 
didna mean that it was written there." 

"Then what the hell did ye mean?" inquired 
the mystified disciple — not altogether unreason- 
ably. 

Private Tosh made a misguided but well- 
meaning attempt to straighten out the conversa- 
tion. 

"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing 
voice, "that the name was just stampit on the 
bullet. Like — like — like an identity disc!" he 
added brilliantly. 

The philosopher clutched his temples with both 
hands. 

"I dinna mean ony thing o' the kind," he 
roared. "What I intend tae imply is this, Sandy 
Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet in a 
Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will 
find its way intil yom* insides as sure as if your 
name was written on it! ThaVs what I meant. 
Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me 
thenoo?" 

But it was the injured Buncle who replied — 
like a lightning-flash. 

"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed 



48 ALL IN IT 

to his perturbed ally. ''That bullet has no' gotten 
your length yet. Maybe it never wuU. There's 
mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name 
on it that finds its way intil the inside of some 
other man." He fixed Tosh with a relentless eye. 
''A bit ham, for instance!" 

It was a knock-out blow. 

''For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised 
Tosh, "drop the subject, and I'll gie ye a bit ham 
o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it — " 

"What kin' o' a fire is this?" 

A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substan- 
tial presence inserted itself between the debaters 
and the wintry sunshine. Corporal Mucklewame 
was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, 
pointing an accusing finger at the fire, which, 
neglected in the ardour of discussion, was smoking 
furiously. 

"Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" 
continued Mucklewame sarcastically. "Put oot 
the fire at once, or I '11 need tae bring ye all before 
the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye '11 get, and 
ye '11 deserve it! " 

IV 

In the fire-trench — or perhaps it would be 
more correct to call it the water-trench — life 
may be short, and is seldom merry; but it is not 
often dull. For one thing, we are never idle. 

A Boche trench-mortar knocks down several 
yards of your parapet. Straightway your machine- 
gunners are called up, to cover the gap until dark- 
ness falls and the gaping wound can be stanched 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 49 

with fresh sandbags. A mine has been exploded 
upon your front, leaving a crater into which pred- 
atory Boches will certainly creep at night. You 
sunamon a posse of bombers to occupy the cavity 
and discourage any such enterprise. The heavens 
open, and there is a sudden deluge. Immediately 
it is a case of all hands to the trench-pump! A 
better plan, if you have the advantage of ground, 
is to cut a culvert under the parapet and pass the 
inundation on to a more deserving quarter. In 
any case you need never lack healthful exercise. 

While upon the subject of mines, we may note 
that this branch of military industry has ex- 
panded of late to most unpleasant dimensions. 
The Boche began it, of course — he always initi- 
ates these undesirable pastimes, — and now we 
have followed his lead and caught him up. 

To the ordinary mortal, to become a blind 
groper amid the dark places of the earth, in search 
of a foe whom it is almost certain death to en- 
counter there, seems perhaps the most idiotic of 
all the idiotic careers open to those who are idiotic 
enough to engage in modern warfare. However, 
many of us are as much at home below ground as 
above it. In most peaceful times we were accus- 
tomed to spend eight hours a day there, lying up 
against the ^'face" in a tunnel perhaps four feet 
high, and wielding a pick in an attitude which 
would have convulsed any ordinary man with 
cramp. But there are few ordinary men in ^'K 
(1).'' There is never any difficulty in obtaining 
volunteers for the TunneUing Company. 

So far as the amateur can penetrate its mys- 



50 ALL IN IT 

teries, mining, viewed under our present heading 

— namely, Winter Sports — offers the following 
advantages to its participants : — 

(1) In winter it is much warmer below the earth 
than upon its sm-face, and Thomas Atkins is the 
most confirmed ^'frowster" in the world. 

(2) Critics seldom descend into mines. 

(3) There is extra pay. 

The disadvantages are so obvious that they 
need not be enumerated here. 

In these trenches we have been engaged upon a 
very pretty game of subterranean chess for some 
weeks past, and we are very much on our mettle. 
We have some small leeway to make up. When 
we took over these trenches, a German mine, 
which had been maturing (apparently unheeded) 
during the tenancy of our predecessors, was 
exploded two days after our arrival, inflicting 
heavy casualties upon '^ D " Company. Curiously 
enough, the damage to the trench was compara- 
tively slight; but the tremendous shock of the 
explosion killed more than one man by concus- 
sion, and brought down the roofs of several dug- 
outs upon their sleeping occupants. Altogether it 
was a sad business, and the BattaUon swore to be 
avenged. 

So they called upon Lieutenant Duff-Bertram 

— usually called Bertie the Badger, in reference 
to his rodent disposition — to make the first 
move in the return match. So Bertie and his 
troglodyte assistants sank a shaft in a retired spot 
of their own selecting, and proceeded to burrow 
forward towards the Boche Unes. 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 51 

After certain days Bertie presented himself, 
covered in clay, before Colonel Kemp, and made a 
report. 

Colonel Kemp considered. 

^^You say you can hear the enemy working?" 
he said. 

^^Yes, sir." 

^^Near?" 

'^Pretty near, sir." 

*'How near?" 

'^A few yards." 

"What do you propose to do?" 

Bertie the Badger — in private life he was a 
consulting mining engineer with a beautiful office 
in Victoria Street and a nice taste in spats — 
scratched an earthy nose with a muddy forefinger. 

"I think they are making a defensive gallery, 
sir," he announced. 

"Let us have your statement in the simplest 
possible language, please," said Colonel Kemp. 
"Some of my younger officers," he added rather 
ingeniously, "are not very expert in these mat- 
ters." 

Bertie the Badger thereupon expounded the 
situation with solemn relish. By a defensive gal- 
lery, it appeared that he meant a lateral tunnel 
running parallel with the trench-line, in such a 
manner as to intercept any tunnel pushed out by 
the British miners. 

"And what do you suggest doing to this Picca- 
dilly Tube of theirs?" inquired the Colonel. 

"I could dig forward and break into it, sir," 
suggested Bertie. 



52 ALL IN IT 

^'That seems a move in the right direction/' 
said the Colonel. ^^But won't the Boche try to 
prevent you?" 

''Yes, sir." 

"How?" 

''He will wait until the head of my tunnel gets 
near enough, and then blow it in." 

"That would be very tiresome of him. What 
other alternatives are open to you?" 

"I could get as near as possible, sir," re- 
plied Bertie cahnly, "and then blow up his gal- 
lery." 

"That sounds better. Well, exercise your own 
discretion, and don't get blown up unless you 
particularly want to. And above all, be quite sure 
that while you are amusing yourself with the 
Piccadilly Tube, the wily Boche is n't burrowing 
past you, and under my parapet, by the Bakerloo! 
Good luck! Report any fresh development at 



once." 



So Bertie the Badger returned once more to his 
native element and proceeded to exercise his dis- 
cretion. This took the form of continuing his ag- 
gressive tunnel in the direction of the Boche de- 
fensive gallery. Next morning, encouraged by the 
absolute silence of the enemy's miners, he made a 
farther and final push, which actually landed him 
in the "PiccadHly Tube" itself. 

"This is a rum go, Howie!" he observed in a 
low voice to his corporal. "A long, beautiful gal- 
lery, five by four, lined with wood, electrically 
lighted, with every modern convenience — and 
not a Boche in it!" 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 53 

^'Varra bad discipline, sir!'' replied Corporal 
Howie severely. 

''Are you sure it is n't a trap?" 

^'It may be, sirr; but I doot the oversman is 
awa' to his dinner, and the men are back in the 
shaft, doing nae thing." Corporal Howie had been 
an ''oversman" himself, and knew something of 
subterranean labour problems. 

"Well, if you are right, the Boche must be 
getting demoralised. It is not like him to present 
us with openings like this. However, the first 
thing to do is to distribute a few souvenirs along 
the gallery. Pass the word back for the stuff. 
Meanwhile I shall endeavour to test your theory 
about the oversman's dinner-hour. I am going to 
creep along and have a look at the Boche en- 
trance to the Tube. It 's down there, at the south 
end, I think. I can see a break in the wood lining. 
If you hear any shooting, you will know that the 
dinner-hour is over!" 

At the end of half an hour the Piccadilly Tube 
was lined with sufficient explosive material — se- 
curely rammed and tamped — to ensure the per- 
manent closing of the line. Still no Boche had 
been seen or heard. 

"Now, Howie," said Bertie the Badger, finger- 
ing the fuse, "what about it? " 

"About what, sirr?" inquired Howie, who was 
not quite au fait with current catch-phrases. 

"Are we going to touch off all this stuff now, 
and clear out, or are we going to wait and see?" 

"I would like fine — "began the Corporal 
wistfully. 



54 ALL IN IT 

''So would I," said Bertie. ''Tell the men to 
get back and out; and you and I will hold on until 
the guests return from the banquet." 

"Varra good, sirr." 

For another half-hour the pair waited — Bertie 
the Badger like a dog in its kennel, with his head 
protruding into the hostile gallery, while his faith- 
ful henchman crouched close behind him. Deathly 
stillness reigned, relieved only by an occasional 
thud, as a shell or trench-mortar bomb exploded 
upon the ground above their heads. 

"I'm going to have another look round the 
corner," said Bertie at last. "Hold on to the 
fuse." 

He handed the end of the fuse to his subordi- 
nate, and having wormed his way out of the tun- 
nel, proceeded cautiously on all-fours along the 
gallery. On his way he passed the electric light. 
He twisted off the bulb and crawled on in the 
dark. 

Feeling his way by the east wall of the gallery, 
he came presently to the break in the woodwork. 
Very slowly, lying flat on his stomach now, he 
wriggled forward until his head came opposite the 
opening. A low passage ran away to his left, ob- 
viously leading back to the Boche trenches. 
Three yards from the entrance the passage bent 
sharply to the right, thus interrupting the line of 
sight. 

"There 's a hght burning just round that bend," 
said Bertie the Badger to himself. "I wonder if it 
would be rash to go on and have a look at it!" 

He was still straining at this gnat, when sud- 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 55 

denly his elbow encountered a shovel which was 
leaning against the wall of the gallery. It tumbled 
down with a clatter almost stunning. Next mo- 
ment a hand came round the bend of the tunnel 
and fired a revolver almost into the explorer's 
face. 

Another shot rang out directly after. 

The devoted Howie, hastening to the rescue, 
collided sharply with a solid body crawling to- 
wards him in the darkness. 

^' Curse you, Howie!" said the voice of Bertie 
the Badger, with refreshing earnestness. ^'Get 
back out of this! Where's your fuse?" 

The pair scrambled back into their own tunnel, 
and the end of the fuse was soon recovered. Al- 
most simultaneously three more revolver-shots 
rang out. 

"I thought I had fixed that Boche,'^ mur- 
mured Bertie in a disappointed voice. '^I heard 
him grunt when my bullet hit him. Perhaps this 
is another one — or several. Keep back in the 
tunnel, Howie, confound you, and don't breathe 
up my sleeve! They are firing straight along the 
gallery now. I will return the compliment. 
Ouch!" 

^'What's the matter, sirr?" inquired the anx- 
ious voice of Howie, as his officer, who had tried 
to fire round the corner with his left hand, gave a 
sudden exclamation and rolled over upon his side. 

*^I must have been hit the first time," he ex- 
plained. ^'Collar-bone, I think. I didn't know, 
till I rested my weight on my left elbow. . . . 
Howie, I am going to exercise my discretion again. 



56 ALL IN IT 

Somebody in this gallery is going to be blown up 
presently, and if you and I don't get a move on, 
p.d.q., it will be us! Give me the fuse-lighter, and 
wait for me at the foot of the shaft. Quick!'' 

Very reluctantly the Corporal obeyed. How- 
ever, he was in due course joined at the foot of the 
shaft by Bertie the Badger, groaning profanely; 
and the pair made their way to the upper regions 
with all possible speed. After a short interval, a 
sudden rumbling, followed by a heavy explosion, 
announced that the fuse had done its work, and 
that the Piccadilly Tube, the fruit of many toil- 
some w^eeks of Boche calculation and labour, had 
been permanently closed to traffic of all descrip- 
tions. 

Bertie the Badger received a Military Cross, 
and his abettor the D.C.M. 



But the newest and most fashionable form of 
winter sport this season is The Flying Matinee. 

This entertainment takes place during the 
small hours of the morning, and is strictly Hmited 
to a duration of ten minutes — quite long enough 
for most matinees, too. The actors are furnished 
by a unit of ''K (1) " and the role of audience is 
assigned to the inhabitants of the Boche trenches 
immediately opposite. These matinees have 
proved an enormous success, but require most 
careful rehearsal. 

It is two A.M., and comparative peace reigns up 
and down the line. The rain of star-shells, always 
prodigal in the early evening, has died down to a 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 57 

mere drizzle. Working and fatigue parties, which 
have been busy since darkness set in at five 
o'clock, — rebuilding parapets, repairing wire, 
carrying up rations, and patrolling debatable 
areas, — have ceased their labours, and are sleep- 
ing heavily until the coming of the wintry dawn 
shall rouse them, grimy and shivering, to another 
day's unpleasantness. 

Private Hans Dumpkopf , on sentry duty in the 
Boche firing-trench, gazes mechanically over the 
parapet; but the night is so dark and the wind so 
high that it is difficult to see and quite impossible 
to hear anything. He shelters himself beside a 
traverse, and waits patiently for his relief. It 
begins to rain, and Hans, after cautiously recon- 
noitring the other side of the traverse, to guard 
against prowling sergeants, sidles a few yards to 
his right beneath the friendly cover of an impro- 
vised roof of corrugated iron sheeting, laid across 
the trench from parapet to parados. It is quite 
dry here, and comparatively warm. Hans closes 
his eyes for a moment, and heaves a gentle 
sigh. 

Next moment there comes a rush of feet in the 
darkness, followed by a metalUc clang, as of hob- 
nailed boots on metal. Hans, lying prostrate and 
half -stunned beneath the galvanised iron sheeting, 
which, dislodged from its former position by the 
impact of a heavy body descending from above, 
now forms part of the flooring of the trench, is 
suddenly aware that this same trench is full of 
men — rough, uncultured men, clad in short pet- 
ticoats and the skins of wild animals, and armed 



58 ALL IN IT 

with knobkerries. The Flying Matinee has be- 
gun, and Hans Dumpkopf has got in by the early 
door. 

Each of the performers — there are fifty of 
them all told — has his part to play, and plays 
it with commendable aplomb. One, having dis- 
armed an unresisting prisoner, assists him over 
the parapet and escorts him affectionately to his 
new home. Another clubs a recalcitrant foeman 
over the head with a knobkerry, and having thus 
reduced him to a more amenable frame of mind, 
hoists him over the parapet and drags him after 
his ''kamarad." 

Other parties are told off to deal with the dug- 
outs. As a rule, the occupants of these are too 
dazed to make any resistance, — to be quite 
frank, the individual Boche in these days seems 
rather to welcome captivity than otherwise, — 
and presently more of the ''bag" are on their way 
to the British lines. 

But by this time the performance is drawing to 
a close. The alarm has been communicated to the 
adjacent sections of the trench, and preparations 
for the ejection of the intruders are being hurried 
forward. That is to say, German bombers are 
collecting upon either flank, with the intention of 
bombing ''inwards" until the impudent foe has 
been destroyed or e\'icted. As we are not here to 
precipitate a general action, but merely to round 
up a few prisoners and do as much damage as pos- 
sible in ten minutes, we hasten to the finale. As in 
most finales, one's actions now become less re- 
strained — but, from a brutal point of \dew, more 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 59 

effective. A couple of hand-grenades are thrown 
into any dug-out which has not yet surrendered. 
(The Canadians, who make quite a speciaHty of 
flying matinees, are accustomed, we understand, 
as an artistic variant to this practice, to fasten an 
electric torch along the barrel of a rifle, and so 
illuminate their lurking targets while they shoot.) 
A sharp order passes along the line; every one 
scrambles out of the trench; and the troupe makes 
its way back, before the enemy in the adjacent 
trenches have really wakened up, to the place 
from which it came. The matinee, so far as the 
actors are concerned, is over. 

Not so the audience. The avenging host is 
just getting busy. The bombing-parties are now, 
marshalled and proceed with awful solemnity 
and Teutonic thoroughness to clear the violated 
trench. The procedure of a bombing-party is 
stereotyped. They begin by lobbing hand-gre- 
nades over the first traverse into the first bay. 
After the ensuing explosion, they trot round the 
traverse in single file and occupy the bay. This 
manoeuvre is then repeated until the entire trench 
is cleared. The whole operation requires good 
discipline, considerable courage, and carefully 
timed co-operation with the other bombing- 
party. In all these attributes the Boche excels. 
But one thing is essential to the complete success 
of his efforts, and that is the presence of the en- 
emy. When, after methodically desolating each 
bay in turn (and incidentally killing their own 
wounded in the process), the two parties meet 
midway — practically on top of the unfortunate 



eO ALL IN IT 

Hans Dumpkopf , who is still giving an imitation 
of a tortoise in a corrugated shell — it is discov- 
ered that the beautifully executed counter-attack 
has achieved nothing but the recapture of an en- 
tirely empty trench. The birds have flown, taking 
their prey with them. Hans is the sole survivor, 
and after hearing what his officer has to say to 
him upon the subject, bitterly regrets the fact. 

Meanwhile, in the British trenches a few yards 
away, the box-office returns are being made up. 
These take the form, firstly, of some twenty-five 
prisoners, including one indignant officer — he 
had been pulled from his dug-out half asleep and 
frog-marched across the British lines by two pri- 
vate soldiers well qualified to appreciate the rich- 
ness of his language — together with various sou- 
venirs in the way of arms and accoutrements; and 
secondly, of the knowledge that at least as many 
more of the enemy had been left permanently 
incapacitated for further warfare in the dug-outs. 
A grim and grisly drama when you come to criti- 
cise it in cold blood, but not without a certain 
humour of its own — and most educative for 
Brother Boche! 

But he is a slow pupil. He regards the profes- 
sion of arms and the pursuit of war with such in- 
tense and solemn reverence that he cannot con- 
ceive how any one calling himself a soldier can be 
so criminally frivolous as to write a farce roimd 
the subject — much less present the farce at a 
Flying Matinee. That possibly explains why the 
following stately paragraph appeared a few days 
later in the periodical communique which keeps 



WINTER SPORTS: VARIOUS 61 

the German nation in touch with its Army's 
latest exploits: — 

During the night of Jan. Ifth-Bth attempts were 
made by strong detachments of the enemy to pene- 
trate our line near Sloozleschump, S.E. of Ypres. 
The attack failed utterly. 

'^ And they don't even realise that it was only a 
leg-pull!" commented the Company Commander 
who had stage-managed the affair. "These people 
simply don't deserve to have entertainments ar- 
ranged for them at all. Well, we must pull the 
limb again, that's all!" 

And it was so. 



IV 

THE PUSH THAT FAILED 



''I WONDER if they really mean business this 
time/' surmised that youthful Company Com- 
mander, Temporary Captain Bobby Little, to 
Major Wagstaffe. 

^'It sounds like it," said Wagstaffe, as another 
salvo of ''whizz-bangs" broke like inflammatory 
surf upon the front-line trenches. ''Intermittent 
strafes we are used to, but this all-day perform- 
ance seems to indicate that the Boche is really 
getting down to it for once. The whole proceeding 
reminds me of nothing so much as our own ' artil- 
lery preparation' before the big push at Loos." 

"Then you think the Boches are going to make 
a push of their own?" 

"I do; and I hope it will be a good fat one. 
When it comes, I fancy we shall be able to put up 
something rather pretty in the way of a defence. 
The Salient is stiff with guns — I don't think the 
Boche quite realises how stiff! And we owe the 
swine something!" he added through his teeth. 

There was a pause in the conversation. You 
cannot hold the Salient for three months without 
paying for the distinction ; and the regiment had 
paid its full share. Not so much in numbers, per- 
haps, as in quality. Stray bullets, whistling up 
and down the trenches, coming even obliquely 



THE PUSH THAT FAILED 63 

from the rear, had exacted most grievous toll. 
Shells and trench-mortar bombs, taking us in 
flank, had extinguished many valuable lives. At 
this time nothing but the best seemed to satisfy 
the Fates. One day it would be a trusted colour- 
sergeant, on another a couple of particularly 
promising young corporals. Only last week the 
Adjutant — athlete, scholar, born soldier, and 
very lovable schoolboy, all most perfectly blended 
— had fallen mortally wounded, on his morning 
round of the fire-trenches, by a bullet which came 
from nowhere. He was the subject of Wag- 
staffe's reference. 

^'Is it not possible,'' suggested Mr. Waddell, 
who habitually considered all questions from 
every possible point of view, ^Hhat this bombard- 
ment has been specially initiated by the German 
authorities, in order to impress upon their own 
troops a warning that there must be no Christmas 
truce this year?" 

^^If that is the Kaiser's Christmas greeting to 
his loving followers," observed Wagstaffe drily, 
''I think he might safely have left it to us to 
deliver it!" 

'^They say," interposed Bobby Little, ^'that 
the Kaiser is here himself." 

^^How do you know?" 

* ' It was rumoured in ' Comic Cuts . ' " ( " Comic 
Cuts" is the stately Summary of War Intelli- 
gence issued daily from Olympus.) 

*'If that is true," said Wagstaffe, ''they proba- 
bly will attack. All this fuss and bobbery suggest 
something of the kind. They remind me of the 



64 ALL IN IT 

commotion which used to precede Arthur Rob- 
erts's entrance in the old days of Gaiety burlesque. 
Before your time, I fancy, Bobby?" 

^'Yes," said Bobby modestly. ''I first found 
touch with the Gaiety over ^Our Miss Gibbs.' 
And I was quite a kid even then," he added, with 
characteristic honesty. ''But what about Arthur 
Roberts?" 

''Some forty or fifty years ago," explained 
Wagstaffe, ''when I was in the habit of frequent- 
ing places of amusement, Arthur Roberts was 
leading man at the establishment to which I have 
referred. He usually came on about half-past 
eight, just as the show was beginning to lose its 
first wind. His entrance was a most tremendous 
affair. First of all the entire chorus blew in from 
the wings — about sixty of them in ten seconds — 
saying "Hurrah, hurrah, girls!" or something 
rather subtle of that kind; after which minor 
characters rushed on from opposite sides and told 
one anotlpr that Arthur Roberts was coming. 
Then the band played, and everybody began to 
tell the audience about it in song. When every- 
thing was in full blast, the great man would ap- 
pear — stepping out of a bathing-machine, or 
falling out of a hansom-cab, or sliding down a 
chute on a toboggan. He was assisted to his feet 
by the chorus, and then proceeded to ginger the 
show up. Well, that's how this present entertain- 
ment impresses me. All this noise and obstrep- 
erousness are leading up to one thing — Kaiser 
Bill's entrance. Preliminary bombardment — 
that's the chorus getting to work! Minor charac- 



THE PUSH THAT FAILED 65 

ters — the trench-mortars — spread the glad 
news! Band and chorus — that's the grand at- 
tack working up to boiUng-point ! Finally, pre- 
ceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in 
person, supported by spectacled coryphees in 
brass hats! How's that for a Christmas panto- 
mime?" 

^^ Rotten!" said Bobby, as a shell sang over the 
parapet and burst in the wood behind. 

II 

Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe's extrav- 
agant analogy held good. As Christmas drew 
nearer, the band played louder and faster; the 
chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became 
finally apparent that something (or somebody) of 
portentous importance was directing the storm. 

Between six and seven next morning, the Bat- 
talion, which had stood to arms all night, lifted 
up its heavy head and sniffed the misty dawn- 
wind — an east wind — dubiously. Next moment 
gongs were clanging up and down the trench, and 
men were tearing open the satchels which con- 
tained their anti-gas helmets. 

Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from 
Battalion Headquarters to take general charge of 
affairs in the firing- trench, buttoned the bottom 
edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clam- 
bered up on the firing-step to take stock of the 
position. He crouched low, for a terrific bombard- 
ment was in progress, and shells were almost graz- 
ing the parapet. 

Presently he was joined by a slim young officer 



66 ALL IN IT 



similarly disguised. It was the Commander of 
"A" Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close 
to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the 
cloth — 

"We shan't feel this gas much. They 're letting 
it off higher up the line. Look!" 

Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air in- 
side his helmet, — being preserved from a gas 
attack is only one degree less unpleasant than 
being gassed, — turned his goggles northward. 

In the dim light of the breaking day he could 
discern a greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from 
the Boche trenches on his left. 

"Will they attack?" he bellowed. 

Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously 
unbuttoned his collar and rolled up the front of 
his helmet. Then, after dehcately sampling the 
atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his 
helmet altogether. Bobby followed his example. 
The air was not by any means so pure as might 
have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable 
to that inside a gas-helmet. 

"Nothing to signify," pronounced Wagstaffe. 
"We 're only getting the edge of it. Sergeant, pass 
down that men may roll up their helmets, but 
must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, 
things are getting interesting. Will they attack, 
or will they not?" 

"What do you think?" asked Bobby. 

"They are certainly going to attack farther 
north. The Boche does not waste gas as a rule — 
not this sort of gas! And I think he'll attack here 
too. The only reason why he has not switched on 



THE PUSH THAT FAILED 67 

our anaesthetic is that the wind is n't quite right 
for this bit of the Hne. I think it is going to be a 
general push. Bobby, have a look through this 
sniper's loophole. Can you see any bayonets 
twinkling in the Boche trenches?" 

Bobby applied an eye to the loophole. 

''Yes," he said, ^'I can see them. Those 
trenches must be packed with men." 

'^ Absolutely stiff with them," agreed Wag- 
staff e, getting out his revolver. ''We shall be in 
for it presently. Are your fellows all ready, 
Bobby?" 

The youthful Captain ran his eye along the 
trench, where his Company, with magazines 
loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting 
the onset. There had been an onset similar to this, 
with the same green, nauseous accompaniment, in 
precisely the same spot eight months before, 
which had broken the line and penetrated for four 
miles. There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope 
of cooks, brakesmen, and officers' servants, and 
disaster had been most gloriously retrieved. 
What was going to happen this time? One thing 
was certain: the day of stink-pots was over. 

"When do you think they'll attack?" shouted 
Bobby to Wagstaffe, battling against the noise of 
bursting shells. 

"Quite soon — in a minute or two. Their guns 
will stop directly — to lift their sights and set up 
a barrage behind us. Then, perhaps the Boche 
will step over his parapet. Perhaps not!" 

The last sentence rang out with uncanny dis- 
tinctness, for the German guns with one accord 



68 ALL IN IT 

had ceased firing. For a full two minutes there 
was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the op- 
posite trenches twinkled with tenfold intent. 

Then, from every point in the great Salient of 
Ypres, the British guns replied. 

Possibly the Imperial General Staff at Berlin 
had been misinformed as to the exact strength of 
the British Artillery. Possibly they had been in- 
formed by their Intelligence Department that 
Trades Unionism, had ensured that a thoroughly 
inadequate supply of shells was to hand in the 
Sahent. Or possibly they had merely decided, 
after the playful habit of General Staffs, to let the 
infantry in the trenches take their chance of any 
retaliation that might be forthcoming. 

Whatever these great men were expecting, it is 
highly improbable that they expected that which 
arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke 
out, and they all spoke together. In the space of 
four minutes they deposited thirty thousand high- 
explosive shells in the Boche front-line trenches 
— yea, distributed the same accurately and 
evenly along all that crowded arc. Then they 
paused, as suddenly as they began, while British 
riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work. 

But few received the order to fire. Here and 
there a wave of men broke over the German para- 
pet and rolled towards the British fines — only 
to be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. 
Never once was the goal reached. The great 
Christmas attack was over. After months of 
weary waiting and foofish recrimination, that 
exasperating race of bad starters but great stay- 



THE PUSH THAT FAILED 69 

ers, the British people, had delivered ^'the goods, '^ 
and made it possible for their soldiers to speak 
with the enemy in the gate upon equal — nay, 
superior, terms. 

'^Is that all?" asked Bobby Little, peering out 
over the parapet, a little awe-struck, at the devas- 
tation over the way. 

^^Thatisall,"saidWagstaffe,^'or I'ma Boche! 
There will be much noise and some irregular 
scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been placed 
upon the grand attack. The great Christmas 
Victory is off!'' 

Then he added, thoughtfully, referring appar- 
ently to the star performer : — 

^'We have been and spoiled his entrance for 
him, have n't we?" 



UNBENDING THE BOW 
I 

There is a certain type of English country-house 
female who is said to '4ive in her boxes.'' That is 
to say, she appears to possess no home of her own, 
but flits from one indulgent roof -tree to another; 
and owing to the fact that she is invariably put 
into a bedroom whose wardrobe is full of her host- 
ess's superannuated ball-frocks and winter furs, 
never knows what it is to have all her "things" 
unpacked at once. 

Well, we out here cannot be said to live in our 
boxes, for we do not possess any; but we do most 
undoubtedly live in our haversacks and packs. 
And this brings us to the matter in hand — 
namely, so-called '^Rest-Billets." The whole of 
the hinterland of this great trench-line is full of 
tired men, seeking for a place to lie down in, and 
living in their boxes when they find one. 

At present we are indulging in such a period of 
repose; and we venture to think that on the whole 
we have earned it. Our last rest was in high sum- 
mer, when we lay about under an August sun in 
the district round Bethune, and called down 
curses upon all flying and creeping insects. Since 
then we have undergone certain so-called "oper- 
ations" in the neighbourhood of Loos, and have 
put in three months in the Salient of Ypres. As 



UNBENDING THE BOW 71 

that devout adherent of the Roman faith, Private 
Reilly, of ^'B'' Company, put it to his spiritual 
adviser — 

"I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Pur- 
gatory for this, father !'' 

We came out of the SaHent just before Christ- 
mas, in the midst of the mutual unpleasantness 
arising out of the grand attack upon the British 
line which was to have done so much to restore 
the waning confidence of the Hun. It was meant 
to be a big affair — a most majestic victory, in 
fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, 
and our new shells paralysed the attack; so the 
Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still, as I say, 
there was considerable unpleasantness all round; 
and we were escorted upon our homeward way, 
from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and from 
Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry 
and disappointed shells. 

Next day we found ourselves many miles be- 
hind the firing-line, once more in France, with a 
whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably 
conscious that one could walk round a corner or 
look over a wall without preliminary reconnais- 
sance or subsequent extirpation. 

As for the holiday itself, unreasonable persons 
are not lacking to point out that it is of the bus- 
man's variety. It is true that we are no longer 
face to face with the foe, but we — or rather, the 
authorities — make believe that we are. We wage 
mimic warfare in full marching order; we fire rifles 
and machine-guns upon improvised ranges; we 
perform hazardous feats with bombs and a 



72 ALL IN IT 

dmniny trench. More galling still, we are back in 
the region of squad-drill, physical exercises, and 
handling of arms — horrors of our childhood 
which we thought had been left safely interned at 
Aldershot. 

But the authorities are wise. The regiment is 
stiff and out of condition: it is suffering from 
moral and intellectual ^'trench-feet.'^ Heavy 
drafts have introduced a large and untempered 
element into our composition. Many of the 
subalterns are obviously ^'new-jined" — as the 
shrewd old lady of Ayr once observed of the rubi- 
cund gentleman at the temperance meeting. 
Their men hardly know them or one another 
by sight. The regiment must be moulded anew, 
and its lustre restored by the beneficent process 
vulgarly known as ''spit and polish." So every 
morning we apply ourselves with thoroughness, if 
not enthusiasm, to tasks which remind us of last 
winter's training upon the Hampshire chalk. 

But the afternoon and evening are a different 
story altogether. If we were busy in the morning, 
we are busier still for the rest of the day. There is 
football galore, for we have to get through a com- 
plete series of Divisional cup-ties in four weeks. 
There is also a Brigade boxing-tournament. (No, 
that was not where Private Tosh got his black 
eye : that is a souvenir of New Year's Eve.) There 
are entertainments of various kinds in the recre- 
ation-tent. This whistling platoon, with towels 
round their necks, are on their way to the nearest 
convent, or asylum, or Ecole des Jeunes Filles — 
bave no fear: these establishments are unten- 



UNBENDING THE BOW 73 

anted! — for a bath. There, in addition to the 
pleasures of ablution, they will receive a partial 
change of raiment. 

Other signs of regeneration are visible. That 
mysterious-looking vehicle, rather resembling one 
of the early locomotives exhibited in the South 
Kensington Museum, standing in the mud outside 
a farm-billet, its superheated interior stuffed with 
'^C Company's blankets, is performing an un- 
mentionable but beneficent work. 

Buttons are resuming their polish; the pattern 
of oiu" kilts is emerging from its superficial crust; 
and Church Parade is once more becoming quite a 
show affair. 

Away to the east the guns still thunder, and at 
night the star-shells float tremblingly up over the 
distant horizon. But not for us. Not yet, that is. 
In a few weeks' time we shall be back in another 
part of the line. Till then — Company drill and 
Cup-Ties! Carpe diem! 

II 

It all seemed very strange and unreal to Second- 
Lieutenant Angus M'Lachlan, as he alighted from 
the train at railhead, and supervised the efforts of 
his solitary N.C.O. to arrange the members of his 
draft in a straight line. There were some thirty of 
them in all. Some were old hands — men from 
the First and Second Battalions, who had been 
home wounded, and had now been sent out to 
leaven ^'K (1)." Others were Special Reservists 
from the Third Battalion. These had been at the 
D6p6t for a long time^ and some of them stood 



74 ALL IN IT 

badly in need of a little active service. Others, 
again, were new hands altogether — the product 
of K to the n^^-'' Among these Angus M'Lach- 
lan numbered himself, and he made no attempi to 
conceal the fact. The novelty of the sights around 
him was almost too much for his insoucianc dig- 
nity as a commissioned officer. 

Angus M^Lachlan was a son of the Manse, and 
incidentally a child of Nature. The Manse was a 
Highland Manse; and until a few months ago 
Angus had never, save for a rare visit to distant 
Edinburgh, penetrated beyond the small town 
which lay four miles from his native glen, and of 
whose local Academy he had been ''dux." When 
the War broke out he had been upon the point of 
proceeding to Edinburgh University, where he 
had already laid siege to a bursary, and captured 
the same; but all these plans, together with the 
plans of countless more distinguished persons, had 
been swept to the winds by the invasion of Bel- 
gium. On that date Angus summoned up his 
entire stock of physical and moral courage and 
informed his reverend parent of his intention to 
enlist for a soldier. Permission was granted with 
quite stunning readiness. Neil M'Lachlan be- 
Ueved in straight hitting both in theology and 
war, and was by no means displeased at the mar- 
tial aspirations of his only son. If he quitted him- 
self like a man in the forefront of battle, the boy 
could safely look forward to being cock of his own 
Kirk-Session in the years that came afterwards. 
One reservation the old man made. His son, as a 
Highland gentleman, would lead men to battle, 



UNBENDING THE BOW 75 

and not merely accompany them. So the impa- 
tient Angus was bidden to apply for a Commission 
— his attention dm"ing the period of waiting being 
directed by his parent to the study of the cam- 
paigns of Joshua, and the methods employed by 
that singular but successful strategist in dealing 
with the Philistine. 

Angus had a long while to wait, for all the youth 
of England — and Scotland too — was on fire, 
and others nearer the fountain of honour had to be 
served first. But his turn came at last; and we 
now behold him, as typical a product of ^^ K to the 
n'^ " as Bobby Little had been of '' K (1), " stand- 
ing at last upon the soil of France, and inquiring 
in a soft Highland voice for the Headquarters of 
our own particular Battalion. 

He had half expected, half hoped, to alight from 
the train amidst a shower of shells, as he knew the 
Old Regiment had done many months before, just 
after the War broke out. But all he saw upon his 
arrival was an untidy goods yard, littered with 
military stores, and peopled by British privates in 
the deshabille affected by the British Army when 
engaged in menial tasks. 

Being quite ignorant of the whereabouts of his 
regiment — when last heard of they had been in 
trenches near Ypres — and failing to recollect the 
existence of that autocratic but indispensable 
genius loci, the R.T.O., Angus took uneasy stock 
of his surroundings and wondered what to do 
next. 

Suddenly a friendly voice at his elbow re- 
marked — 



76 ALL IN IT 

''There's a queer lot o' bodies hereaboot, sirr." 

Angus turned, to find that he was being ad- 
dressed by a short, stout private of the draft, in a 
kilt much too big for him. 

"Indeed, that is so," he replied politely. 
"What is your name?" 

"Peter Bogle, sirr. I am frae oot of Kirkintil- 
loch." Evidently gratified by the success of his con- 
versational opening, the little man continued — 

"I would like fine for tae get a contrack oot 
here after the War. This country is in a terrible 
state o' disrepair." Then he added confiden- 
tially — 

"I'm a hoose-painter tae a trade." 

"I should not like to be that myself," replied 
Angus, whose early training as a minister's son 
was always causing him to forget the social gulf 
which is fixed between officers and the rank-and- 
file. "Climbing ladders makes me dizzy." 

"Och, it's naething! A body gets used tae it," 
Mr. Bogle assured him. 

Angus was about to proceed further with the 
discussion, when the cold and disapproving voice 
of the Draft-Sergeant announced in his ear — 

"An officer wishes to speak to you, sir." 

Second-Lieutenant M'Lachlan, suddenly awake 
to the enormity of his conduct, turned guiltily to 
greet the officer, while the Sergeant abruptly 
hunted the genial Private Bogle back into the 
ranks. 

Angus found himself confronted by an immacu- 
late young gentleman wearing two stars. Angus, 
who only wore one, saluted hurriedly. 



UNBENDING THE BOW 77 



(( 



Morning/' observed the stranger. ^'You in 
charge of this draft?" 

^'Yes, sir," said Angus respectfully. 

'^Right-o! You are to march them to *A' 
Company billets. I'll show you the way. My 
name's Cockerell. Your train is late. What time 
did you leave the Base?" 

^'Indeed," rephed Angus meekly, "1 am not 
quite sure. We had barely landed when they told 
me the train would start at seventeen-forty. 
What time would that be — sir?" 

''About a quarter to ten: more Hkely about 
midnight! Well, get your bunch on to the road, 
and — Hallo, what's the matter? Let go!" 

The new officer was gripping him excitedly by 
the arm, and as the new officer stood six-foot-four 
and was brawny in proportion, Master Cockerell's 
appeal was uttered in a tone of unusual sincerity. 

''Look!" cried Angus excitedly. "The dogs, 
the dogs!" 

A small cart was passing swiftly by, towed by 
two sturdy hounds of unknown degree. They 
were pulling with the feverish enthusiasm which 
distinguishes the Dog in the service of Man, and 
were being urged to further efforts by a small hat- 
less girl carr^dng the inevitable large umbrella. 

' ' All right ! ' ' explained Cockerell curtly. ' ' Cus- 
tom of the country, and all that." 

The impulsive Angus apologised; and the draft, 
having been safely manoeuvred on to the road, 
formed fours and set out upon its march. 

"Are the Battahon in the trenches at present, 
sir?" inquired Angus. 



78 ALL IN IT 

**No. Rest-billets two miles from here. About 
time, too ! You '11 get lots of work to do, though/' 

'^I shall welcome that,'' said Angus simply. 
^'In the d^pot at home we were terribly idle. 
There is a windmill!" 

'^Yes; one sees them occasionally out here," 
replied Cockerell drily. 

^'Everything is so strange!" confessed the 
open-hearted Angus. ''Those dogs we saw just 
now — the people with their sabots — the coun- 
try carts, like wheelbarrows with three wheels — 
the little shrines at the cross-roads — the very 
children talking French so glibly — " 

"Wonderful how they pick it up!" agreed 
Cockerell. But the sarcasm was lost on his com- 
panion, whose attention was now riveted upon an 
approaching body of infantry, about fifty strong. 

"What troops are those, please?" 

Cockerell knitted his brows sardonically. 

"It's rather hard to tell at this distance," he 
said; "but I rather think they are the Grenadier 
Guards." 

Two minutes later the procession had been met 
and passed. It consisted entirely of elderly gentle- 
men in ill-fitting khaki, clumping along upon their 
flat feet and smoking clay pipes. They carried 
shovels on their shoulders, and made not the 
slightest response when called upon by the sol- 
dierly old corporal who led them to give Mr. 
Cockerell "eyes left!" On the contrary, engaged 
as they were in heated controversy or amiable 
conversation with one another, they cut him 
dead, 



UNBENDING THE BOW 79 

Angus MTachlan said nothing for quite five 
minutes. Then — 

^'I suppose/' he said almost timidly, ^Hhat 
those were members of a Reserve Regiment of the 
Guards?'' 

Cockerell, who had never outgrown certain 
characteristics which most of us shed upon emerg- 
ing from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and 
loud. 

'^That crowd? They belong to one of the 
Labom* Battalions. They make roads, and dig 
support trenches, and shng mud about generally. 
Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch 
when a shell falls within half a mile of them. 
Something to write home about. What? I say, I 
pulled your leg that time! Here we are at Head- 
quarters. Come and report to the CO. Grena- 
dier Guards! My aunt!" 

Angus, although his Celtic enthusiasm some- 
times led him into traps, was no fool. He soon 
settled down in his new surroundings, and found 
favour with Colonel Kem^p, which was no light 
achievement. 

*^You won't find that the War, in its present 
stage, calls for any display of genius," the Colo- 
nel explained to Angus at their first interview. 
''I don't expect my officers to exhibit any quahty 
but the avoidance of sloppiness. If I detail you 
to be at a certain spot, at a certain hour, with a 
certain number of men — a ration-party, or a 
working-party, or a burial-party, or anything you 
like, — all I ask is that you will be there, at the ap- 



80 ALL IN IT 

pointed hour, with the whole of your following. 
That may not sound a very difficult feat, but ex- 
perience has taught me that if a man can achieve 
it, and can be relied upon to achieve it, say, nine 
times out of ten — well, he is a pearl of price; and 
there is not a CO. in the British Army who 
would n't scramble to get him! That's all, 
M'Lachlan. Good morning!" 

By punctilious attention to this sound advice 
Angus soon began to build up a reputation. He 
treated war-worn veterans like Bobby Little with 
imimense respect, and this, too, was counted to 
him for righteousness. He exercised his platoon 
with appalling vigour. Upon Company route- 
marches he had to be embedded in some safe 
place in the middle of the column; in fact, his 
enormous stride and pedestrian enthusiasm would 
have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he 
was mute: like a wise man, he was feeling for his 
feet. 

But being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he pro- 
vided himself with an Aaron. Quite inadvert- 
ently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for 
his personal needs, he selected the only man in the 
Battahon whose name he knew — Private Bogle, 
the ci-devant painter of houses. That friendly 
creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his 
house-painting was no better than his valeting, 
then his prospects of a "contrack" after the War 
were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a 
joy for ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers 
of the Mess Corporal, his natural urbanity of dis- 
position could not be stenamed. Of the comfort of 



UNBENDING THE BOW 81 

others he was soHcitous to the point of oppres- 
siveness. A Mess waiter's idea of efficiency as a 
rule is to stand woodenly at attention in an ob- 
scure corner of the room. When called upon, he 
starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over 
something — probably his own feet. Not so 
Private Bogle. 

^'WuU you try another cup o' tea. Major?'' he 
would suggest at breakfast to Major Wagstaffe, 
leaning affectionately over the back of his chair. 

*'No, thank you, Bogle," Major Wagstaffe 
would reply gravely. 

^' Weel, it's cauld onyway," Bogle would rejoin, 
anxious to endorse his superior's decision. 

Or — in the same spirit — 

^^WuU I luft the soup now, sir?" 

''No!'' 
Varra weel: I'll jist let it bide the way it is." 



ii 



Lastly, Angus M'Lachlan proved himself a 
useful acquisition — especially in rest-billets — 
as an athlete. He arrived just in time to take part 
— no mean part, either — in a Rugby Football 
match played between the officers of two Bri- 
gades. Thanks very largely to his masterly leading 
of the forwards, our Brigade were preserved from 
defeat at the hands of their opponents, who on 
paper had appeared to be irresistible. 

Rugby Football ''oot here" is a rarity, though 
Association, being essentially the game of the 
rank-and-file, flourishes in every green field. But 
an Inverleith or Queen's Club crowd would have 
recognised more than one old friend among the 



82 ALL IN IT 

thirty who took the field that day. There were 
those participating whose last game had been one 
of the spring '' Internationals'^ in 1914, and who 
had been engaged in a prolonged and strenuous 
version of an even greater International ever 
since August of that fateful year. Every public 
school in Scotland was represented — sometimes 
three or four times over — and there were numer- 
ous doughty contributions from establishments 
south of the Tweed. 

The lookers-on were in different case. They 
were to a man devoted — nay, frenzied — ad- 
herents of the rival code. In less spacious days 
they had surged in their thousands every Satur- 
day afternoon to Ibrox, or Tynecastle, or Park- 
head, there to yell themselves into convulsions — 
now exhorting a friend to hit some one a kick on 
the nose, now recommending the foe to play the 
game, now hoarsely consigning the referee to per- 
dition. To these, Rugby Football — the greatest 
of all manly games — was a mere name. Their 
attitude when the officers appeared upon the field 
was one of indulgent superiority — the sort of 
superiority that a brawny pitman exhibits when 
his Platoon Commander steps down into a trench 
to lend a hand with the digging. 

But in five minutes their mouths were agape 
with scandalised astonishment; in ten, the heav- 
ens were rent with their protesting cries. Accus- 
tomed to see football played with the feet, and to 
demand with one voice the instant execution of 
any player (on the other side) who laid so much as 
a finger upon the ball or the man who was playing 



UNBENDING THE BOW 83 

it, the exhibition of savage and promiscuous bru- 
taUty to which their superior officers now treated 
them shocked the assembled spectators to the 
roots of their sensitive souls. Howls of virtuous 
indignation burst forth upon all sides. 

When the three-quarter-backs brought off a 
brilliant passing run, there were stern cries of 
"Haands, there, referee!'^ When Bobby Little 
stopped an ugly rush by hurling himself on the 
ball, the supporters of the other Brigade greeted 
his heroic devotion with yells of execration. When 
Angus M'Lachlan saved a certain try by tackling 
a speedy wing three-quarter low and bringing him 
down with a crash, a hundred voices demanded 
his removal from the field. And, when Mr. Wad- 
dell, playing a stuffy but useful game at half, 
gained fifty yards for his side by a series of 
judicious little kicks into touch, the spectators 
groaned aloud, and remarked caustically — 

^^This maun be a Cup-Tie, boys! They are 
playin' for a draw, for tae get a second gatel^' 

Altogether a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon, 
both for players and spectators. And so home to 
tea, domesticity, and social intercourse. In this 
connection it may be noted that our relations with 
the inhabitants are of the friendliest. On the 
stroke of six — oh yes, we have oiu* licensing re- 
strictions out here too ! — half a dozen kilted war- 
riors stroll into the farm-kitchen, and mumble 
affably to Madame — 

'*Bone sworr! Beer?" 

France boasts one enormous advantage over 
Scotland. At home, you have at least to walk to 



84 ALL IN IT 

the corner of the street to obtain a drink: '^oot 
here^' you can purchase beer in practically every 
house in a village. The French licensing laws are 
a thing of mystery, but the system appears 
roughly to be this. Either you possess a license, 
or you do not. If you do, you may sell beer, and 
nothing else. If you do not, you may — or at any 
rate do — sell anything you like, including beer. 

However, we have left our friends thirsty. 

Their wants are supplied with cheerful alacrity, 
and, having been accommodated with seats round 
the stove, they converse with the family. Heaven 
only knows what they talk about, but talk they 
do — in the throaty unintelligible Doric of the 
Clydeside, with an occasional Gallicism, like, 
''AUyman no bon!" or ''Compree?" thrown in as 
a sop to foreign idiosjoicracies. Madame and 
family respond, chattering French (or Flemish) at 
enormous speed. The amazing part of it all is that 
neither side appears to experience the slightest 
difficulty in understanding the other. One day 
Mr. Waddell, in the course of a friendly chat with 
his hostess of the moment — she was unable to 
speak a word of English — received her warm 
congratulations upon his contemplated union 
with a certain fair one of St. Andrew (to whom 
reference has previously been made in these 
pages). Mr. Waddell, a very fair linguist, replied 
in suitable but embarrassed terms, and asked for 
the source of the good lady's information. 

"Mais votre ordonnance, m'sieur!" was the 
reply. 

Tackled upon the subject, the "ordonnance" in 



UNBENDING THE BOW 85 

question, WaddelFs servant — a shock-headed 
youth from Dundee — admitted having commun- 
icated the information; and added — 

^' She's a decent body, sirr, the lady o' the 
hoose. She lost her husband, she was tellin' me, 
three years ago. She has twa sons in the Airmy. 
Her auld Auntie is up at the top o' the hoose — 
lyin' badly, and no expectin' tae rise.'' 

And yet some people study Esperanto! 

We also make ourselves useful. ''K (1)" con- 
tains members of every craft. If the pig-sty door 
is broken, a carpenter is forthcoming to mend it. 
Somebody's elbow goes through a pane of glass in 
the farm-kitchen : straightway a glazier material- 
ises from the nearest platoon, and puts in another. 
The ancestral eight-day clock of the household 
develops internal complications; and is forthwith 
dismembered and reassembled, '^with punctual- 
ity, civility, and despatch," by a gentleman who 
until a few short months ago had done nothing 
else for fifteen years. 

And it was in this connection that Corporal 
Mucklewame stumbled on to a rare and congenial 
job, and incidentally made the one joke of his life. 

One afternoon a cow, the property of Madame 
la fermiere, developed symptoms of some serious 
disorder. A period of dolorous bellowing was fol- 
lowed by an outburst of homicidal mania, during 
which ^'A" Company prudently barricaded itself 
into the barn, the sufferer having taken entire 
possession of the farmyard. Next, and finally — 
so rapidly did the malady run its course — a state 
of coma intervened; and finally the cow, coUaps- 



86 ALL IN IT 

ing upon the doorstep of the Officers' Mess, 
breathed her last before any one could be found to 
point out to her the liberty she was taking. 

It was decided to hold a post-mortem — firstly, 
to ascertain the cause of death ; secondly, because 
it is easier to remove a dead cow after dissection 
than before. Madame therefore announced her 
intention of sending for the butcher, and was upon 
the point of doing so when Corporal Muckle- 
wame, in whose heart, at the spectacle of the 
stark and Hfeless corpse, ancient and romantic 
memories were stirring — it may be remembered 
that before answering to the call of ^'K(l)'' 
Mucklewame had followed the calling of butcher's 
assistant at Wishaw — volunteered for the job. 
His services were cordially accepted by thrifty 
Madame; and the Corporal, surrounded by a 
silent and admiring crowd, set to work. 

The officers, leaving the Junior Subaltern in 
charge, went with one accord for a long country 
walk. 

Half an hour later Mucklewame arrived at the 
seat of the deceased animal's trouble — the seat 
of most of the troubles of mankind — its stomach. 
After a brief investigation, he produced therefrom 
a small bag of nails, recently missed from the 
vicinity of a cook-house in course of construction 
in the corner of the yard. 

Abandoning the role of siu-gical expert for that 
of coroner, Mucklewame held the trophy aloft, 
and deUvered his verdict — 

*' There, boys! That's what comes of eating 
your iron ration without authority!" 



UNBENDING THE BOW 87 

III 

Here is an average billet, and its personnel. 

The central feature of our residence is the 
rtfuse-pit, which fills practically the whole of the 
rectangular farmyard, and resembles (in size and 
shape only) an open-air swimming bath. Its 
abundant contents are apparently the sole asset 
of the household ; for if you proceed, in the inter- 
ests of health, to spread a decent mantle of honest 
earth thereover, you do so to the accompaniment 
of a harmonised chorus of lamentation, very cred- 
itably rendered by the entire family, who are 
grouped en masse about the spot where the high 
diving-board ought to be. 

Round this perverted place of ablution runs a 
stone ledge, some four feet wide, and round that 
again run the farm buildings — the house at the 
top end, a great barn down one side, and the cow- 
house, together with certain darksome piggeries 
and fowl-houses, down the other. These latter 
residences are occupied only at night, their ten- 
ants preferring to spend the golden hours of day 
in profitable occupation upon the happy hunting 
ground in the middle. 

Within the precincts of this already over- 
crowded establishment are lodged some two hun- 
dred British soldiers and their officers. The men 
sleep in the barn, their meals being prepared for 
them upon the Company cooker, which stands 
in the muddy road outside, and resembles the 
humble vehicle employed by Urban District 
Councils for the preparation of tar for road- 



88 ALL IN IT 

mending purposes. The officers occupy any room 
which may be available within the farmhouse it- 
self. The Company Commander has the best bed- 
room — a low-roofed, stone-fioored apartment, 
with a very small window and a very large bed. 
The subalterns sleep where they can — usually in 
the grenier, a loft under the tiles, devoted to the 
storage of onions and the drying, during the win- 
ter months, of the family washing, which is sus- 
pended from innumerable strings stretched from 
wall to wall. 

For a Mess, there is usually a spare apartment 
of some kind. If not, you put your pride in your 
pocket and take your meals at the kitchen table, 
at such hours as the family are not sitting humped 
round the same with their hats on, partaking of 
soup or coffee. (This appears to be their sole sus- 
tenance.) A farm-kitchen in northern France is a 
scrupulously clean place — the whole family gets 
up at half -past four in the morning and sees to the 
matter — and despite the frugality of her own 
home menu, the fermiere can produce you a perfect 
omelette at any hour of the day or night. 

This brings us to the kitchen-stove, which is a 
marvel. No massive and extravagant English 
ranges here ! There is only one kind : we call it the 
Coffin and Flower-pot. The coffin — small, black, 
and highly polished — projects from the wall 
about four feet, the further end being supported 
by what looks like an ornamental black flower-pot 
standing on a pedestal. The coffin is the oven, 
and the flower-pot is the stove. Given a handful 
of small coal or charcoal, Madame appears cap- 



UNBENDING THE BOW 89 

able of keeping it at work all day, and of boiling, 
baking, or roasting you innumerable dishes. 

Then there is the family. Who or what they all 
are, and where they all sleep, is a profound mys- 
tery. The family tree is usually headed by a de- 
crepit and ruminant old gentleman in a species of 
yachting-cap. He sits behind the stove — not 
exactly with one foot in the grave, but with both 
knees well up against the coffin — and occasion- 
ally offers a mumbled observation of which no one 
takes the slightest notice. Sometimes, too, there 
is an old, a very old, lady. Probably she is some 
one's grandmother, or great-grandmother, but 
she does not appear to be related to the old gentle- 
man. At least, they never recognise one another's 
existence in any way. 

There are also vague people who possess the 
power of becoming invisible at will. They fade in 
and out of the house like wraiths: their one object 
in life appears to be to efface themselves as much 
as possible. Madame refers to them as ^ ' refugies ' ' ; 
this the sophisticated Mr. Cockerell translates, 
^'German spies." 

Next in order come one or two farmhands — 
usually addressed as '^'Nri!" and ^^'Seph!" They 
are not as a rule either attractive in appearance or 
desirable in character. Everyman in this country, 
who is a man, is away, as a matter of course, doing 
a man's only possible duty under the circum- 
stances. This leaves 'Nri and 'Seph, who through 
physical or mental shortcomings are denied the 
proud privilege, and shamble about in the muck 
and mud of the farm, leering or grumbling, while 



90 ALL IN IT 

Madame exhorts them to further activity from 
the kitchen door. They take their meals with the 
family : where they sleep no one knows. External 
evidence suggests the cow-house. 

Then, the family. First, Angele. She may be 
twenty-five, but is more probably fifteen. She 
acts as Adjutant to Madame, and rivals her 
mother as deliverer of sustained and rapid recita- 
tive. She milks the cows, feeds the pigs, and dra- 
goons her young brothers and sisters. But though 
she works from morning till night, she has always 
time for a smiling salutation to all ranks. She 
also speaks English quite creditably — a fact of 
which Madame is justly proud. ^' College!" ex- 
plains the mother, full of appreciation for an edu- 
cation which she herself has never known, and 
taps her learned daughter affectionately upon the 
head. 

Next in order comes fimile. He must be about 
fourteen, but War has forced manhood on him. 
All day long he is at work, bullying very large 
horses, digging, hoeing, even ploughing. He is 
very much a boy, for all that. He whistles excru- 
ciatingly — usually English music-hall melodies 
— grins sheepishly at the officers, and is prepared 
at any moment to abandon the most important 
tasks, in order to watch a man cleaning a rifle or 
oiling a machine-gun. We seem to have encoun- 
tered Emile in other countries than this. 

After fimile, Gabrielle. Her age is probably 
seven. If you were to give her a wash and brush- 
up, dress her in a gauzy frock, and exchange her 
thick woollen stockings and wooden sabots for 



UNBENDING THE BOW 91 

silk and dancing slippers, she would make a very 
smart little fairy. Even in her native state she is 
a most attractive young person, of an engaging 
coyness. If you say: ^'Bonjour, Gabrielle!'' she 
whispers: "B'jour M'sieur le Capitaine'^ — or, 
^^M^sieur le Caporal'^; for she knows all badges of 
rank — and hangs her head demurely. But pres- 
ently, if you stand quite still and look the other 
way, Gabrielle will sidle up to you and squeeze 
your hand. This is gratifying, but a little subver- 
sive of strict discipline if you happen to be inspect- 
ing your platoon at the moment. 

Gabrielle is a firm favourite with the rank and 
file. Her particular crony is one Private Mackay, 
an amorphous youth with flaming red hair. He 
and Gabrielle engage in lengthy conversations, 
which appear to be perfectly intelHgible to both, 
though Mackay speaks with the solemn unction 
of the Aberdonian, and Gabrielle prattles at ex- 
press speed in a patois of her own. Last week 
some unknown humorist, evidently considering 
that Gabrielle was not making sufficient progress 
in her knowledge of English, took upon himself to 
give her a private lesson. Next morning Mackay, 
on sentry duty at the farm gate, espied his Httle 
friend peeping round a corner. 

'^Hey, Garibell!'' he observed cheerfully. (No 
Scottish private ever yet mastered a French name 
quite completely.) 

Gabrielle, anxious to exhibit her new accom- 
plishment, drew nearer, smiled seraphically, and 
replied — 

'EUo, Gingeau-!" 



(( r 



92 ALL IN IT 

Last of the bunch comes Petit Jean, a chubby 
and close-cropped youth of about six. Petit Jean 
is not his real name, as he himself indignantly ex- 
plained when so addressed by Major Wagstaffe. 

''Moi, z'ne suis pas Petit Jean; z'suis Maurr- 
rice!'^ 

Major Wagstaffe apologised most humbly, but 
the name stuck. 

Petit Jean is an enthusiast upon matters mili- 
tary. He possesses a little wooden rifle, the gift of 
a friendly ^^Ecossais," tipped with a flashing bay- 
onet cut from a biscuit- tin; and spends most of his 
time out upon the road, waiting for some one to 
salute. At one time he used to stand by the sen- 
try, with an ancient glengarry crammed over his 
bullet head, and conform meticulously to his com- 
rade's shghtest movement. This procedure was 
soon banned, as being calculated to bring con- 
tempt and ridicule upon the King's uniform, and 
Petit Jean was assigned a beat of his own. Behold 
him upon sentry-go. 

A figure upon horseback swings round the bend 
in the road. 

''Here's an officer, Johnny!" cries a friendly 
voice from the farm gate. 

Petit Jean, as upright as a post, brings his rifle 
from stand-at-ease to the order, and from the or- 
der to the slope, with the epileptic jerkiness of a 
marionette, and scrutinises the approaching officer 
for stars and crowns. If he can discern nothing but 
a star or two, he slaps the small of his butt with 
ferocious solemnity ; but if a crown, or a red hat- 
band, reveals itself, he blows out his small chest 



UNBENDING THE BOW 93 

to its fullest extent and presents arms. If the sa- 
lute is acknowledged — as it nearly always is — 
Petit Jean is crimson with gratification. Once, 
when a friendly subaltern called his platoon to 
attention, and gave the order, '^ Eyes right ! " upon 
passing the motionless little figure at the side of 
the road. Petit Jean was so uplifted that he com- 
mitted the military crime of deserting his post 
while on duty — in order to run home and tell his 
mother about it. 

Last of all we arrive at the keystone of the 
whole fabric — Madame herself. She is one of the 
most wonderful women in the world. Consider. 
Her husband and her eldest son are away — fight- 
ing, she knows not where, amid dangers and priva- 
tions which can only be imagined. During their 
absence she has to manage a considerable farm, 
with the help of her children and one or two hired 
labourers of more than doubtful use or reliability. 
In addition to her ordinary duties as a parent and 
fermiere, she finds herself called upon, for months 
on end, to maintain her premises as a combina- 
tion of barracks and almshouse. Yet she is seldom 
cross — except possibly when the soldats steal her 
apples and pelt the pigs with the cores — and no 
accumulations of labour can sap her energy. She 
is up by half -past four every morning; yet she 
never appears anxious to go to bed at night. The 
last sound which sleepy subalterns hear is Ma- 
dame's voice, uplifted in steady discourse to the 
circle round the stove, sustained by an occasional 
guttural chord from 'Nri and 'Seph. She has been 



94 ALL IN IT 

doing this, day in, day out, since the combatants 
settled down to trench-warfare. Every few weeks 
brings a fresh crop of tenants, with fresh pecuhari- 
ties and unknown prochvities; and she assimilates 
them all. 

The only approach to a breakdown comes 
when, after pajdng her little bill — you may be 
sure that not an omelette nor a broken window 
will be missing from the account — and wishing 
her ^* Bonne chance!" ere you depart, you venture 
on a reference, in a few awkward, stumbling sen- 
tences, to the absent husband and son. Then she 
weeps, copiously, and it seems to do her a world of 
good. All hail to you, Madame — the finest ex- 
ponent, in all this War, of the art of Carrying On! 
We know now why France is such a great country. 



VI 

YE MEREIE BUZZERS 
I 

Practically all the business of an Army in the 
field is transacted by telephone. If the telephone 
breaks down, whether by the Act of God or of the 
King's Enemies, that business is at a standstill 
until the telephone is put right again. 

The importance of the disaster varies with the 
nature of the business. For instance, if the wire 
leading to the Round Game Department is blown 
down by a March gale, and your weekly return of 
Men Reconmiended for False Teeth is delayed in 
transit, nobody minds very much — except pos- 
sibly the Deputy Assistant Director of Auxiliary 
Dental Appliances. But if you are engaged in 
battle, and the wires which link up the driving 
force in front with the directing force behind are 
devastated by a storm of shrapnel, the matter 
assumes a more — nay, a most — serious aspect. 
Hence the superlative importance in modern war- 
fare of the Signal Sections of the Royal Engineers 
— tersely described by the rank-and-file as the 
*^ Buzzers," or the ^'Iddy-Umpties." 

During peace-training, the Buzzer on the whole 
has a very pleasant time of it. Once he has mas- 
tered the mysteries of the Semaphore and Morse 
codes, the most laborious part of his education is 
over. Henceforth he spends his days upon some 



96 ALL IN IT 

sheltered hillside, in company with one or two 
congenial spirits, flapping cryptic messages out of 
a blue-and-white flag at a similar party across the 
valley. 

A year ago, for instance, you might have en- 
countered an old friend. Private M'Micking, — 
one of the original ''Buzzers" of ''A'^ Company, 
and ultimately Battalion Signal Sergeant — un- 
der the lee of a pine wood near Hindhead, accom- 
panied by Lance-Corporal Greig and Private 
Wamphray, regarding with languid interest the 
frenzied efforts of three of their colleagues to con- 
vey a message from a sunny hillside three quarters 
of a mile away. 

''Here a message comin' through, boys,'' an- 
nounces the Lance-Corporal. "They're in a sair 
hurry : I doot the officer will be there. Jeams, tak' 
it doon while Sandy reads it." 

Mr. James M'Micking seats himself upon a 
convenient log. In order not to confuse his 
faculties by endeavouring to read and write 
simultaneously, he turns his back upon the 
fluttering flag, and bends low over his field 
message-pad. Private Wamphray stands facing 
him, and solemnly spells out the message over 
his head. 

"Tae g-o-c — I dinna ken what that means — 
r-e-d, reid — a-r-m-y, airmy — h-a-z — " 

"All richt; that'll be Haslemere," says Private 
M'Micking, scribbling down the word. "Go on, 
Sandy!" 

Private Wamphray, pausing to expectorate, 
continues — 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 97 



^'R-e-c-o-n-n-o-i-t-r — Cricky, what a worrd! 
Let's hae it repeatit." 

Wamphray flaps his flag vigorously, — he 
knows this particular signal only too well, — and 
the word comes through again. The distant sig- 
naller, slowing down a little, continues, — 

^''Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry 



scou — '" 



''That'll be 'scouts,'" says the ever-ready 
M'Micking. "Carry on!" 

Wamphray continues obediently, — 

"'Country'; stop; 'Have thrown out flank 
guns'; stop; 'Shall I advance or re — '" 

" — tire," gabbles M'Micking, writing it down. 

" — 'where I am'; stop; 'From O C Advance 
Guard'; stop; message ends." 

"And aboot time, too!" observes the scribe 
severely. "Haw, Johnny!" 

The Lance-Corporal, who has been indulging in 
a pleasant reverie upon a bank of bracken, wakes 
up and reads the proffered message. 

"Tae G O C, Reid Airmy, Hazlemere. Recon- 
noitring patrol reports hostile cavalry scouts 
country. Have thrown oot flank guns. Shall I 
advance or retire where I am? From C Advance 
Guard." 

"This message doesna sound altogether sense," 
he observes mildly. "That 'shall' should be 
'wull,' onyway. Would it no' be better to get it 
repeatit? The officer — " 

"I've given the 'message-read' signal now," 
objects the indolent Wamphray. 



98 ALL IN IT 

^'How would it be," suggests the Lance-Cor- 
poral, whose besetting sin is a penchant for emen- 
dation, ^'if we were tae transfair yon stop, and 
say : ' Reconnoitring patrol reports hostile cavalry 
scouts. Country has thrown oot flank guns'?" 

*'What does that mean?" inquires M'Micking 
scornfully. 

^^I dinna ken; but these messages about Gen- 
erals and sic '-like bodies — " 

At this moment, as ill-luck will have it, the Sig- 
nal Sergeant appears breasting the hillside. He 
arrives puffing — he has seen twenty years' serv- 
ice — and scrutinises the message. 

''You boys," he says reproachfully, "are an 
aggravate altogether. Here you are, jumping at 
your conclusions again ! After all I have been tell- 
ing you ! See ! That worrd in the address should 
no' be Haslemere at all. It's just a catch! It's 
Hazebroucke — a Gairman city that we'll be 
capturing this time next year. 'Scouts' is no 
'scouts,' but 'scouring' — meaning 'sooping up.' 
'Guns' should be 'guarrd,' and 'retire' should be 
'remain.' Mind me, now; next time, you'll be up 
before the Captain for neglect of duty. Wam- 
phray, give the 'C.I.,' and let's get hame to oor 
dinners!" 

II 

But "oot here" there is no flag-wagging. The 
Buzzer's first proceeding upon entering the field 
of active hostilities is to get underground, and 
stay there. 

He is a seasoned vessel, the Buzzer of to-day, 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 99 

and a person of marked individuality. He is 
above all things a man of the world. Sitting day 
and night in a dug-out, or a cellar, with a tele- 
phone receiver clamped to his ear, he sees little; 
but he hears much, and overhears more. He also 
speaks a language of his own. His one task in life 
is to prevent the letter B from sounding like C, or 
D, or P, or T, or V, over the telephone; so he has 
perverted the English language to his own uses. 
He calls B ^'Beer,'^ and D "Don," and so on. He 
salutes the rosy dawn as " Akk Emma," and even- 
tide as "Pip Emma." He refers to the letter S as 
"Esses," in order to distinguish it from F. He has 
no respect for the most majestic military titles. 
To him the Deputy Assistant Director of the 
Mobile Veterinary Section is merely a lifeless for- 
mula, entitled Don Akk Don Emma Vic Esses. 

He is also a man of detached mind. The tactical 
situation does not interest him. His business is to 
disseminate news, not to write leading articles 
about it. (0 si sic omnes!) You may be engaged 
in a life-and-death struggle for the possession of 
your own parapet with a Boche bombing-party; 
but this does not render you immune from a pink 
slip from the Signal Section, asking you to state 
your reasons in writing for having mislaid four- 
teen pairs of "boots, gum, thigh," lately the 
property of Number Seven Platoon. A famous 
British soldier tells a story somewhere in his remi- 
niscences of an occasion upon which, in some long- 
forgotten bush campaign, he had to defend a 
zareba against a heavy attack. For a time the 
situation wa^ critical Help wa^ badly needed, 



100 ALL IN IT 

but the telegraph wire had been cut. Ultimately 
the attack withered away, and the situation was 
saved. Almost simultaneously the victorious com- 
mander was informed that telegraphic communi- 
cation with the Base had been restored. A mes- 
sage was already coming through. 

" News of reinforcements, I hope! " he remarked 
to his subordinate. 

But his surmise was incorrect. The message 
said, quite simply : — 

^'Your monthly return of men wishing to 
change their religion is twenty-four hours over- 
due. Please expedite.'^ 

There was a time when one laughed at that 
anecdote as a playful invention. But we know 
now that it is true, and we feel a sort of pride in 
the truly British imperturbability of our official 
machinery. 

Thirdly, the Buzzer is a humourist, of the sar- 
donic variety. The constant clash of wits over the 
wires, and the necessity of framing words quickly, 
sharpens his faculties and acidulates his tongue. 
Incidentally, he is an awkward person to quarrel 
with. One black night, Bobby Little, making his 
second round of the trenches about an hour before 
'^stand-to," felt constrained to send a telephone 
message to Battalion Headquarters. Taking a 
good breath, — you always do this before en- 
tering a trench dug-out, — he plunged into the 
noisome cavern where his Company Signallers 
kept everlasting vigil. The place was in total 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 101 

darkness, except for the illumination supplied by 
a strip of rifle-rag burning in a tin of rifle-oil. The 
air, what there was of it, was thick with large, 
fat, floating particles of free carbon. The tele- 
phone was buzzing plaintively to itself, in unsuc- 
cessful competition with a well-modulated quar- 
tette for four nasal organs, contributed by Bobby's 
entire signalling staff, who, locked in the inex- 
tricable embrace peculiar to Thomas Atkins in 
search of warmth, were snoring harmoniously 
upon the earthen floor. 

The signaller ^'on duty" — one M'Gurk — was 
extracted from the heap and put under arrest for 
sleeping at his post. The enormity of his crime 
was heightened by the fact that two undelivered 
messages were found upon his person. 

Divers pains and penalties followed. Bobby 
supplemented the sentence with a homily on the 
importance of vigilance and despatch. M'Gurk, 
deeply aggrieved at forfeiting seven days' pay, 
said nothing, but bided his time. Two nights la- 
ter the Battalion came out of trenches for a week's 
rest, and Bobby, weary and thankful, retired to 
bed in his hut at 9 p.m., in comfortable anticipa- 
tion of a full night's repose. 

His anticipations were doomed to disappoint- 
ment. He was roused from slumber — not with- 
out difficulty — by Signaller M'Gurk, who ap- 
peared standing by his bedside with a guttering 
candle-end in one hand and a pink despatch-form 
in the other. The message said : — 

^^ Prevailing wind for next twenty-four hours 
probably S.W., with some rain." 



102 ALL IN IT 

Mindful of his own recent admonitions, Bobby 
thanked M'Gurk poHtely, and went to sleep again. 

M'Gurk called again at half -past two in the 
morning, with another message, which an- 
nounced : — 

*' Baths will be available for your Company 
from 2 to 3 p.m. to-morrow." 

Bobby stuffed the missive under his air-pillow, 
and rolled over without a word. M'Gurk with- 
drew, leaving the door of the hut open. 

His next visit was about four o'clock. This 
time the message said : — 

"A Zeppelin is reported to have passed over 
Dunkirk at 5 p.m. yesterday afternoon, proceed- 
ing in a northerly direction." 

Bobby informed M'Gurk that he was a fool and 
a dotard, and cast him forth. 

M'Gurk returned at five-thirty, bearing written 
evidence that the Zeppelin had been traced as far 
as Ostend. 

This time his Company Commander promised 
him that if he appeared again that night he would 
be awarded fourteen days' Field Punishment 
Number One. 

The result was that upon sitting down to break- 
fast at nine next morning, Bobby found upon his 
plate yet another message — from his Command- 
ing Officer — summoning him to the Orderly- 
room on urgent matters at eight-thirty. 

But Bobby scored the final and winning trick. 
Sending for M'Gurk and Sergeant M'Micking, he 
said: — 

^^This man. Sergeant, appears to be unable to 



\ YE MERRIE BUZZERS 103 

decide when a message is urgent and when it is 
not. In future, whenever M'Gurk is on night 
duty, and is in doubt as to whether a message 
should be dehvered at once or put aside till morn- 
ing, he will come to you and ask for your guidance 
in the matter. Do you understand? '^ 

''Perrfectly, sirr!" replied the Sergeant, out- 
wardly calm. 

^'M'Gurk, do you understand?" 

M'Gurk looked at Bobby, and then round at 
Sergeant M'Micking. He received a glance which 
shrivelled his marrow. The game was up. He 
grinned sheepishly, and answered, — 

"Yis, sirr!" 

Ill 

Having briefly set forth the character and 
habits of the Buzzer, we will next proceed to visit 
the creature in his lair. This is an easy feat. We 
have only to walk up the communication-trench 
which leads from the reserve line to the firing-line. 
Upon either side of the trench, neatly tacked to 
the muddy wall by a device of the hairpin variety, 
run countless insulated wires, clad in coats of 
various colours and all duly ticketed. These radi- 
ate from various Headquarters in the rear to nu- 
merous signal stations in the front, and were laid 
by the Signallers themselves. (It is perhaps un- 
necessary to mention that that single wire run- 
ning, in defiance of all regulations, across the top 
of the trench, which neatly tipped your cap off 
just now, was laid by those playful humourists, 
the Royal Artillery.) It follows that if we accom- 



104 ALL IN IT 

pany these wires far enough we shall ultimately 
find ourselves in a signalling station. 

Our only difficulty lies in judicious choice, for 
the wires soon begin to diverge up numerous by- 
ways. Some go to the fire- trench, others to the 
machine-guns, others again to observation posts 

— or O.P.'s — whence a hawk-eyed Forward 
Observing Officer, peering all day through a chink 
in a tumble-down chimney or sandbagged loop- 
hole, is sometimes enabled to flash back the intel- 
ligence that he can discern transport upon such a 
road in rear of the Boche trenches, and will such 
a battery kindly attend to the matter at once? 

However, chance guides us to the Signal dug- 
out of ^' A" Company, where, by the best fortune 
in the world. Private M'Gurk in person is in- 
stalled as officiating sprite. Let us render our- 
selves invisible, sit down beside him, and "t&p^^ 
his wire. 

In the dim and distant days before such phrases 
as ^^Boche," and ''T.N.T.," and '^munitions," 
and ''economy" were invented; when we lived in 
houses which possessed roofs, and never dreamed 
of lying down motionless by the roadside when we 
heard a taxi-whistle blown thrice, in order to es- 
cape the notice of approaching aeroplanes, — in 
short, in the days immediately preceding the war, 

— some of us said in our haste that the London 
Telephone Service was The Limit ! Since then we 
have made the acquaintance of the military field- 
telephone, and we feel distinctly softened towards 
the young woman at home who, from her dug-out 
in ''Gerrard/'.or ''Vic," or "Hop.," used to goad 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 105 

us to impotent frenzy. She was at least terse and 
decided. If you rang her up and asked for a num- 
ber, she merely replied, — 

(a) ^^ Number engaged"; 

(b) ^' No reply"; 

(c) ''Out of order" — 

as the case might be, and switched you off. 
After that you took a taxi to the place with which 
you wished to communicate, and there was an end 
of the matter. Above all, she never explained, she 
never wrangled, she spoke tolerably good Enghsh, 
and there was only one of her — or at least she 
was of a uniform type. 

Now, if you put your ear to the receiver of a 
field-telephone, you find yourself, as it were, sud- 
denly thrust into a vast subterranean cavern, 
filled with the wailings of the lost, the babblings of 
the feeble-minded, and the profanity of the exas- 
perated. If you ask a high-caste Buzzer — say, an 
R.E. Signalling Officer — why this should be so, 
he will look intensely wise and recite some solemn 
gibberish about earthed wires and induced cur- 
rents. 

The noises are of two kinds, and one supple- 
ments the other. The human voice supplies the 
libretto, while the accompaniment is provided by 
a syncopated and tympanum-piercing ping-ping j 
suggestive of a giant mosquito singing to its 
young. 

The instrument with which we are contending 
is capable (in theory) of transmitting a message 
either telephonically or telegraphically. In prac- 
tice, this means that the signaller, having wasted 



106 ALL IN IT 

ten sulphurous minutes in a useless attempt to 
convey information through the medium of the 
human voice, next proceeds, upon the urgent ad- 
vice of the gentleman at the other end, and to the 
confusion of all other inhabitants of the cavern, 
to ''buzz" it, employing the dots and dashes of 
the Morse code for the purpose. 

It is believed that the wily Boche, by means of 
ingenious and delicate instruments, is able to 
''tap" a certain number of our trench telephone 
messages. If he does, his daily Intelligence Re- 
port must contain some surprising items of in- 
formation. At the moment when we attach our 
invisible apparatus to Mr. M'Gurk's wire, the 
Divisional Telephone system appears to be fairly 
evenly divided between — 

(1) A Regimental Headquarters endeavouring 
to ring up its Brigade. 

(2) A glee-party of Harmonious Blacksmiths, 
indulging in the Anvil Chorus. 

(3) A choleric Adjutant on the track of a 
peccant Company Commander. 

(4) Two Company Signallers, engaged in a 
friendly chat from different ends of the trench 
hne. 

(5) An Artillery F.O.O., endeavoiuing to con- 
vey pressing and momentous information to his 
Battery, two miles in rear. 

(6) The Giant Mosquito aforesaid. 

The consoUdated result is something like 
this : — 

Regimental Headquarteks (affably). Hallo, 
Brigade! Hallo, Brigade! Hallo, Brigade! 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 107 

The Mosquito. Ping! 

The Adjutant {from somewhere in the Support 
Line J fiercely). Give me B Company! 

The Forward Observing Officer (from his 
eyrie). Is that C Battery? There's an enemy 
working-party — 

First Chatty Signaller (from B Company^s 
Station). Is that yourseF, Jock? How's a' wi' 
you? 

Second Chatty Signaller (from D Company^ s 
Station). I'm daen fine! How's your — 

Regimental Headquarters. Hallo, Bri- 
gade ! 

The Adjutant. Is that B Company? 

A Mysterious and Distant Voice (politely). 
No, sir; this is Akk and Esses Aitch. 

The Adjutant (furiously). Then for the 
Lord's sake get off the hue! 

The Mosquito. Ping! Ping! 

The Adjutant. And stop that 

buzzing! 

The Mosquito. Ping! Ping! Ping! 

TheF.0.0. Is that C Battery? There's — 

First Chatty Signaller (peevishly). What's 
that you're sayin'? 

The F.0.0. (perseveringly) . Is that C Battery? 
There's an enemy working-party in a coppice 
at — 

First Chatty Signaller. This is Beer Com- 
pany, sir. Weel, Jock, did ye get a quiet nicht? 

Second Chatty Signaller. Oh, aye. There 
was a wee — 

The F.0.0. Is that C Battery? There's — 



108 ALL IN IT 

Second Chatty Signallek. No, sir. This is 
Don Company. Weel, Jimmy, there was a 
couple whish-bangs came intil — 

Regimental Headquarters. Hallo, Bri- 
gade! 

A Cheerful Cockney Voice. Well, my lad, 
what abaht it? 

Regimental Headquarters (getting to work at 
once). Hold the line, Brigade. Message to Staff 
Captain. ''Ref. your S.C. fourr stroke seeven 
eight six, the worrking-parrty in question — '' 

The F.0.0. (seeing a gleam of hope). Working- 
party? Is that C Battery? I want to speak to — 

The Adjutant. 1 /-. x £c ^.u 

T) XT I Get off the 

Brigade Headquarters. > ,. ^ 

Regimental Headquarters, j 

First Chatty Signaller. Haw, Jock, was ye 
hearin' aboot Andra? 

Second Chatty Signaller. No. Whit was 
that? 

First Chatty Signaller. Weel — 

The F.0.0. (doggedly). Is that C Battery? 

Regimental Headquarters (resolutely). ''The 
worrking-parrty in question was duly detailed for 
tae proceed to the rendiss vowse at" — 

The Adjutant. Is that B Company, curse 
you? 

Regimental Headquarters (quite impervious 
to this sort of thing), — ''the rendiss vowse, at 
seeven thirrty Akk Emma, at point H two B 
eight nine, near the cross-roads by the Estamint 
Repose dee Bicyclistees, for tae" — honklhonkle! 
honk! 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 109 

Bkigade Headquarters (compassionately). 
You're makin' a 'orrible mess of this message, 
ain't you? Shake your transmitter, do! 

Regimental Headquarters (after dutifully 
performing this operation) . Honkle, honkle, honk. 
Yang! 

Brigade Headquarters. Buzz it, my lad, 
buzz it! 

Regimental Headquarters (dutifully). Ping, 
ping ! Ping, ping ! Ping, ping, ping ! Ping — 

General Chorus. Stop that , , , 

buzzing! 

First Chatty Signaller. Weel, Andra says 
tae the Sergeant-Major of Beer Company, says 
he — 

The Adjutant. Is that B Company? 

First Chatty Signaller. No, sir; this is Beer 
Company. 

The Adjutant (fortissimo). I said Beer 
Company ! 

First Chatty Signaller. Oh! I thocht ye 
meant Don Company, sir. 

The Adjutant. Why the blazes have n't you 
answered me sooner? 

First Chatty Signaller (tactfully). There 
was other messages comin' through, sir. 

The Adjutant. Well, get me the Company 
Commander. 

First Chatty Signaller. Varra good, sirr. 

A pause. Regimental Headquarters being engaged 
in laboriously ^' buzzing^' its message through to the 
Brigade, all other conversation is at a standstill. 
The Harmonious Blacksmiths seize the opportunity 



no ALL IN IT 

to give a short selection. Presently, as the din dies 
down — 

The F.0.0. (faint, yet pursuing). Is that C 
Battery? 

A Jovial Voice. Yes. 

The F.0.0. What a shock! I thought you were 
all dead. Is that you, Chumps? 

The Jovial Voice. It is. What can I do for 
you this morning? 

The f.0.0. You can boil your signal sentry's 
head! 

The Jovial Voice. What for? 

The f.0.0. For keeping me waiting. 

The Jovial Voice. Righto! And the next 
article? 

The f.0.0. There's a Boche working-party 
in a coppice two hundred yards west of a point — 

The Mosquito (with renewed vigour). Ping, 
ping! 

Th'e F.0.0. (savagely). Shut up! 

The Jovial Voice. Working-party? I'll settle 
them. What's the map reference? 

The f.0.0. They are in Square number — 

The Harmonious Blacksmiths (suddenly ami 
stunningly). Whang! 

The f.0.0. Shut up! They are in Square — 

First Chatty Signaller. Hallo, Headquar- 
ters! Is the Adjutant there? Here's the Captain 
tae speak with him. 

An Eager Voice. Is that the Adjutant? 

Regimental Headquarters. No, sirr. He's 
away tae his office. Hold the line while I '11 — 

The Eager Voice. No you don't! Put me 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 111 

straight through to C Battery — quick ! Then 
get off the hne, and stay there! (Much buzzing.) 
Is that C Battery? 

The Jovial Voice. Yes, sir. 

The Eager Voice. I am O.C. Beer Company. 
They are sheUing my front parapet, at L 8, with 
pretty heavy stuff. I want retahation, please. 

The Jovial Voice. Very good, sir. (The voice 
dies away.) 

A Sound over our Heads (thirty seconds later). 
Whish! Whish! Whish! 

Second Chatty Signaller. Did ye hear that, 
Jimmy? 

First Chatty Signaller (with relish). Mphm! 
That'U sorrt them! 

The F.0.0. Is that C Battery? 

The Jovial Voice. Yes. What luck, old son? 

The F.0.0. You have obtained two direct hits 
on the Boche parapet. Will you have a cocoanut 
or a ci 

The Jovial Voice. A little less lip, my lad! 
Now tell me all about your industrious friends in 
the Coppice, and we will see what we can do for 
them ! 

And so on. Apropos of Adjutants and Com- 
pany Commanders, Private Wamphray, whose 
acquaintance we made a few pages back, was ulti- 
mately relieved of his position as a Company Sig- 
naller, and returned ignominiously to duty, for 
tactless if justifiable interposition in one of these 
very dialogues. 

It was a dark and cheerless night in mid-winter. 



112 ALL IN IT 

Ominous noises in front of the Boche wire had 
raised apprehensive surmises in the breast of 
Brigade Headquarters. A forward sap was sus- 
pected in the region opposite the sector of trenches 
held by ''A" Company. The trenches at this 
point were barely forty yards apart, and there was 
a very real danger that Brother Boche might 
creep under his own wire, and possibly under ours 
too, and come tumbling over our parapet. 

To Bobby Little came instructions to send a 
specially selected patrol out to investigate the 
matter. Three months ago he would have led the 
expedition himself. Now, as a full-blown Com- 
pany Commander, he was officially precluded 
from exposing his own most responsible person to 
gratuitous risks. So he chose out that recently- 
joined enthusiast, Angus M'Lachlan, and put him 
over the parapet on the dark night in question, 
accompanied by Corporal M'Snape and two 
scouts, with orders to probe the mystery to its 
depth and bring back a full report. 

It was a ticklish enterprise. As is frequently the 
case upon these occasions, nervous tension mani- 
fested itself much more seriously at Headquarters 
than in the front-line trenches. The man on the 
spot is, as a rule, much too busy with the actual 
execution of the enterprise in hand to distress 
himself by speculation upon its ultimate outcome. 
It may as well be stated at once that Angus duly 
returned from his quest, with an admirable and 
reassuring report. But he was a long time absent. 
Hence this anecdote. 

Bobby had strict orders to report all ^'develop- 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 113 

ments," as they occurred, to Headquarters by 
telephone. At half-past eleven that night, as 
Angus M'Lachlan's colossal form disappeared, 
crawling, into the blackness of night, his superior 
officer dutifully rang up Battalion Headquarters, 
and announced that the venture was launched. 
It is possible that the Powers Behind were in pos- 
session of information as to the enemy's inten- 
tions unrevealed to Bobby; for as soon as his open- 
ing announcement was received, he was switched 
right through to a very august Headquarters in- 
deed, and commanded to report direct. 

Long-distance telephony in the field involves 
a considerable amount of '4inking-up.'' Among 
other slaves of the Buzzer who assisted in estab- 
lishing the necessary communications upon this 
occasion was Private Wamphray. For the next 
hour and a half it was his privilege in his subter- 
ranean exchange, to sit, with his receiver clamped 
to his ear, an unappreciative auditor of dialogues 
like the following : — 

'^s that 'A' Company?'^ 

'^Yes, sir." 

'^Any news of your patrol?'^ 

'^No, sir." 

Again, five minutes later : — 

^' Is that ^A' Company?" 

^'Yes, sir." 

^^Has your officer returned yet?" 

^^No, sir. I will notify you when he does." 

This sort of thing went on until nearly one 
o'clock in the morning. Towards that hour, 
Bobby, who was growing really concerned over 



114 ALL IN IT 

Angus^s prolonged absence, cut short his august 
interlocutor's fifteenth inquiry and joined his 
Sergeant-Major on the firing-step. The two had 
hardly exchanged a few low-pitched sentences 
when Bobby was summoned back to the tele- 
phone. 

^^s that Captain Little?" 

^'Yes, sk." 

''Has your patrol come in?'' 

''No, sir." 

Captain's Little's last answer was delivered in a 
distinctly insubordinate manner. Feeling slightly 
relieved, he returned to the firing-step. Two 
minutes later Angus M'Lachlan and his posse 
rolled over the parapet, safe and sound, and 
Bobby was able, to his own great content and that 
of the weary operators along the line, to an- 



nounce, — 



The patrol has returned, sir, and reports 
everything quite satisfactory. I am forwarding 
a detailed statement." 

Then he laid down the receiver with a happy 
sigh, and crawled out of the dug-out on to the 
duck-board. 

"Now we'll have a look round the sentries, 
Sergeant-Major," he said. 

But the pair had hardly rounded three traverses 
when Bobby was haled back to the Signal Station. 

"Why did you leave the telephone just now?" 
inquired a cold voice. 

"I was going to visit my sentries, sir." 

"But 7 was speaking to you." 

"I thought you had finished, sir." 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 115 

"I had not finished. If I had finished, I should 
have informed you of the fact, and would have 
said ^ Good-night! ^'^ 

^^How does one choke off a tripe-merchant of 
this type?" wondered the exhausted officer. 

From the bowels of the earth came the answer 
to his unspoken question — delivered in a strong 
Paisley accent — 

'^For Goad's sake, kiss him, and say 'Good- 
Nicht,' and hae done with it!'' 

As already stated. Private Wamphray was 
returned to his platoon next morning. 

IV 

But to regard the Buzzer simply and solely as a 
troglodyte, of sedentary habits and caustic tem- 
perament, is not merely hopelessly wrong: it is 
grossly unjust. Sometimes he goes for a walk — 
under some such circumstances as the following. 

The night is as black as Tartarus, and it is 
raining heavily. Brother Boche, a prey to nervous 
qualms, is keeping his courage up by distributing 
shrapnel along oiu" communication-trenches. Sig- 
nal-wires are peculiarly vulnerable to shrapnel. 
Consequently no one in the Battalion Signal Sta- 
tion is particularly surprised when the line to 
'^Akk" Company suddenly ceases to perform its 
functions. 

Signal-Sergeant M'Micking tests the instru- 
ment, glances over his shoulder, and observes, — 

^'Line BX is gone, some place or other. Away 
you, Duncan, and sorrt it!" 



116 ALL IN IT 

Mr. Duncan, who has been sitting hunched 
over a telephone, temporarily quiescent, smoking 
a woodbine, heaves a resigned sigh, extinguishes 
the woodbine and places it behind his ear; hitches 
his repairing-wallet nonchalantly over his shoul- 
der, and departs into the night — there to grope 
in several inches of mud for the two broken ends 
of the wire, which may be lying fifty yards apart. 
Having found them, he proceeds to effect a junc- 
tion, his progress being impeded from time to 
time by further bursts of shrapnel. This done, he 
tests the new connection, relights his woodbine, 
and splashes his way back to Headquarters. That 
is a Buzzer's normal method of obtaining fresh 
air and exercise. 

More than that. He is the one man in the Army 
who can fairly describe himself as indispensable. 

In these days, when whole nations are deployed 
against one another, no commander, however 
eminent, can ride the whirlwind single-handed. 
There are limits to individual capacity. There 
are limits to direct control. There are limits to 
personal magnetism. We fight upon a collective 
plan nowadays. If we propose to engage in battle, 
we begin by welding a hundred thousand men into 
one composite giant. We weld a hundred thou- 
sand rifles, a million bombs, a thousand machine- 
guns, and as many pieces of artillery, into one 
huge weapon of offence, with which we arm our 
giant. Having done this, we provide him with a 
brain — a blend of all the experience and wisdom 
and military genius at our disposal. But still 
there is one thing lacking — a nervous system. 



YE MERRIE BUZZERS 117 

Unless our giant have that, — unless his brain be 
able to transmit its desires to his mighty limbs, — 
he has nothing. He is of no account; the enemy- 
can make butcher' s-meat of him. And that is why 
I say that the purveyor of this nervous system — 
our friend the Buzzer — is indispensable. You can 
always create a body of sorts and a brain of sorts. 
But unless you can produce a nervous system of the 
highest excellence, you are foredoomed to failure. 

Take a small instance. Supposing a battalion 
advances to the attack, and storms an isolated, 
exposed position. Can they hold on, or can they 
not? That question can only be answered by the 
Artillery behind them. If the curtain of shell-fire 
which has preceded the advancing battalion to its 
objective can be 'lifted" at the right moment and 
put down again, with precision, upon a certain 
vital zone beyond the captured line, counter- 
attacks can be broken up and the line held. But 
the Artillery lives a long way — sometimes miles 
— in rear. Without continuous and accurate in- 
formation it will be more than useless; it will 
be dangerous. (A successful attacking party has 
been shelled out of its hardly won position by its 
own artillery before now — on both sides !) Some- 
times a little visual signalling is possible: some- 
times a despatch-runner may get back through 
the enemy's curtain of fire; but in the main your 
one hope of salvation hangs upon a slender thread 
of insulated wire. And round that wire are strung 
some of the purest gems of heroism that the War 
has produced. 

At the Battle of Loos, half a battalion of 



118 ALL IN IT 

^'K (1)" pushed forward into a very advanced 
hostile position. There they hung, by their teeth. 
Their achievement was great; but unless Head- 
quarters could be informed of their exact position 
and needs, they were all dead men. So Corporal 
Greig set out to find them, unreeling wire as he 
went. He was blown to pieces by an eight-inch 
shell, but another signaller was never lacking to 
take his place. They pressed forward, these lacka- 
daisical noncombatants, until the position was 
reached and communication established. Again 
and again the wire was cut by shrapnel, and again 
and again a Buzzer crawled out to find the broken 
ends and piece them together. And ultimately, 
the tiny, exposed limb in front having been en- 
abled to explain its exact requirements to the 
brain behind, the necessary help was forthcoming 
and the Fort was held. 

Next time you pass a Signaller's Dug-out peep 
inside. You will find it occupied by a coke brazier, 
emitting large quantities of carbon monoxide, and 
an untidy gentleman in khaki, with a blue-and- 
white device upon his shoulder-straps, who is 
humped over a small black instrument, luxuriat- 
ing in a ''frowst" most indescribable. He is read- 
ing a back number of a rural Scottish newspaper 
which you never heard of. Occasionally, in re- 
sponse to a faint buzz, he takes up his transmitter 
and indulges in an unintelligible altercation with 
a person unseen. You need feel no surprise if he 
is wearing the ribbon of the Distinguished Con- 
duct Medal. 



VII 

PASTURES NEW 
I 

The outstanding feature of to-day's intelligence 
is that spring is coming — has come, in fact. 

It arrived with a bump. March entered upon 
its second week with seven degrees of frost and 
four inches of snow. We said what was natural 
and inevitable to the occasion, wrapped our coats 
of skins more firmly round us, and made a point of 
attending punctually when the rum ration was 
issued. 

Forty-eight hours later winter had disappeared. 
The sun was blazing in a cloudless sky. Aero- 
planes were battling for photographic rights over- 
head; the brown earth beneath our feet was put- 
ting forth its first blades of tender green. The 
muck-heap outside our rest-billet displayed un- 
mistakable signs of upheaval from its winter sleep. 
Primroses appeared in Bunghole Wood; larks 
soared up into the sky above No Man's Land, 
making music for the just and the unjust. Snip- 
ers, smiling cheerfully over the improved atmos- 
pheric conditions, polished up their telescopic 
sights. The artillery on each side hailed the birth 
of yet another season of fruitfulness and natural 
increase with some more than usually enthusiastic 
essays in mutual extermination. Half the Mess 
caught colds in their heads. 



120 ALL IN IT 

Frankly, we are not sorry to see the end of win- 
ter. Caesar, when he had concluded his summer 
campaign, went into winter quarters. Caesar, as 
Colonel Kemp once huskily remarked, knew 
something ! 

Still, each man to his taste. Corporal Muckle- 
wame, for one, greatly prefers winter to summer. 

''In the winter," he points out to Sergeant 
M^Snape, ''a body can breathe withoot swallow- 
ing a wheen bluebottles and bum-bees. A body 
can aye streitch himself doon under a tree for a 
bit sleep withoot getting wasps and wee beasties 
crawling up inside his kilt, and puddocks craw- 
crawing in his ear ! A body can keep himself frae 
sweitin' — " 

''He can that!" assents M'Snape, whose spare 
frame is more vulnerable to the icy breeze than 
that of the stout corporal. 

However, the balance of public opinion is 
against Mucklewame. Most of us are unfeignedly 
glad to feel the warmth of the sun again. That 
working-party, filling sandbags just behind the 
machine-gun emplacement, are actually singing. 
Spring gets into the blood, even in this stricken 
land. The Boche over the way resents our efforts 
at harmony. 

Sing us a song, a song of Bonnie Scotland! 

Any old song will do. 
By the old camp-fire, the rough-and-ready choir 

Join in the chorus too. 
''You'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road" — 

'T is a song that we all know, 
To bring back the days in Bonnie Scotland, 

Where the heather and the bluebells — 



PASTURES NEW 121 

Whang! 

The Boche, a Wagnerian by birth and upbring- 
ing, cannot stand any more of this, so he has fired 
a rifle-grenade at the glee-party — on the whole 
a much more honest and direct method of con- 
demnation than that practiced by musical critics 
in time of peace. But he only elicits an encore. 
Private Nigg perches a steel helmet on the point 
of a bayonet, and patronisingly bobs the same up 
and down above the parapet. 

These steel helmets have not previously been 
introduced to the reader's notice. They are 
modelled upon those worn in the French Army — 
and bear about as much resemblance to the origi- 
nal pattern as a Thames barge to a racing yacht. 
When first issued, they were greeted with pro- 
found suspicion. Though undoubtedly service- 
able, — they saved many a crown from cracking 
round The Bluff the other day, — they were un- 
deniably heavy, and they were certainly not be- 
coming to the peculiar type of beauty rampant in 
^'K (1)." On issue, then, their recipients elected 
to regard the wearing of them as a peculiarly nox- 
ious form of "fatigue." Private M'A. deposited 
his upon the parapet, like a foundling on a door- 
step, and departed stealthily round the nearest 
traverse, to report his new headpiece "lost 
through the exigencies of military service." Pri- 
vate M'B. wore his insecurely perched upon the 
top of his tam-o'-shanter bonnet, where it looked 
Hke a very large ostrich egg in a very small khaki 
nest. Private M'C. set his up on a convenient 
post, and opened rapid fire upon it at a range 



122 ALL IN IT 

of six yards, surveying the resulting holes with 
the gloomy satisfaction of the vindicated pes- 
simist. Private M'D. removed the lining from 
his, and performed his ablutions in the inverted 
crown. 

^^This," said Colonel Kemp, ''will never do. 
We must start wearing the dashed things our- 
selves.'' 

And it was so. Next day, to the joy of the Bat- 
talion, their officers appeared in the trenches self- 
consciously wearing what looked like small sky- 
blue wash-hand basins balanced upon their heads. 
But discipline was excellent. No one even smiled. 
In fact, there was a slight reaction in favour of the 
helmets. Conversations like the following were 
overheard : — 

"I'm tellin' you, Jimmy, the CO. is no the 
man for tae mak' a show of himself like that for 
naething. These tin bunnets must be some use. 
Wull we pit oors on?" 

'^Awa' hame, and bile your heid!" replied the 
imresponsive James. 

''They'll no stop a whish-bang," conceded the 
apostle of progress, "but they would keep off 
splunters, and a wheen bullets, and — and — " 

"And the rain!" supplied Jimmy sarcastically. 

This gibe suddenly roused the temper of the 
other participant in the debate. 

"I tell you," he exclaimed, in a voice shrill with 

indignation, "that these helmets are some 

use!" 

"And I tell 2/oi/," retorted James earnestly, 
"that these helmets are no use!" 



PASTURES NEW 123 

When two reasonable persons arrive at a con- 
troversial impasse, they usually agree to differ 
and go their several ways. But in ^^K (1)'^ we 
prefer practical solutions. The upholder of hel- 
mets hastily thrust his upon his head. 

^'V\\ show you, Jimmy! '^ he announced, and 
clambered up on the firing-step. 

''And I'll well show you, WuUie!'' 

screamed James, doing likewise. 

Simultaneously the two zealots thrust their 
heads over the parapet, and awaited results. 
These came. The rifles of two Boche snipers rang 
out, and both demonstrators fell heavily back- 
wards into the arms of their supporters. 

By all rights they ought to have been killed. 
But they were both very much alive. Each 
turned to the other triumphantly, and ex- 
claimed, — 

^^Itelltyeso!" 

There was a hole right through the helmet of 
Jimmy, the unbeliever. The fact that there was 
not also a hole through his head was due to his 
forethought in having put on a tam-o'-shanter 
underneath. The net result was a truncated 
'Hoorie." WuUie's bullet had struck his helmet 
at a more obtuse angle, and had glanced off, as 
the designer of the smooth exterior had intended 
it to do. 

At first glance, the contest was a draw. But 
subsequent investigation elicited the fact that 
Jimmy in his backward fall had bitten his tongue 
to the effusion of blood. The verdict was therefore 
awarded, on points, to Wullie, and the spectators 



124 ALL IN IT 

dispersed in an orderly manner just as the pla- 
toon sergeant came round the traverse to change 
the sentry. 

II 

We have occupied our own present trenches 
since January. There was a time when this sector 
of the line was regarded as a Vale of Rest. Bishops 
were conducted round with impunity. Members 
of Parliament came out for the week-end, and re- 
turned to their constituents with first-hand infor- 
mation about the horrors of war. Foreign journal- 
ists, and sight-seeing parties of munition-workers, 
picnicked in Bunghole Wood. In the village be- 
hind the line, if a chance shell removed tiles from 
the roof of a house, the owner, greatly incensed, 
mounted a ladder and put in some fresh ones. 

But that is all over now. ''K (1)'^ — hard-headed 
men of business, bountifully endowed with muni- 
tions — have arrived upon the scene, and the 
sylvan peace of the surrounding district is gone. 
Pan has dug himself in. 

The trouble began two months ago, when our 
Divisional Artillery arrived. Unversed in local 
etiquette, they conunenced operations by ''send- 
ing up" — to employ a vulgar but convenient 
catch-phrase — a strongly fortified farmhouse in 
the enemy's support line. The Boche, by way of 
gentle reproof, deposited four or five smaU ''whizz- 
bangs" in our front-line trenches. The tenants 
thereof promptly telephoned to "Mother," and 
Mother came to the assistance of her offspring 
with a salvo of twelve-inch shells. After that, 



PASTURES NEW 125 

Brother Boche, realising that the golden age was 
past, sent north to the Salient for a couple of 
heavy batteries, and settled down to shell Bung- 
hole village to pieces. Within a week he had 
brought down the church tower: within a fort- 
night the population had migrated farther 
back, leaving behind a few patriots, too deeply 
interested in the sale of small beer and picture 
postcards to uproot themselves. Company Head- 
quarters in Bunghole Wood ceased to grow prim- 
roses and began to fill sandbags. 

A month ago the village was practically intact. 
The face of the chiu-ch tower was badly scarred, 
but the houses were undamaged. The little shops 
were open; children played in the streets. Now, 
if you stand at the cross-roads where the church 
rears its roofless walls, you will understand what 
the Abomination of Desolation means. Occasion- 
ally a body of troops, moving in small detach- 
ments at generous intervals, trudges by, on its 
way to or from the trenches. Occasionally a big 
howitzer shell swings lazily out of the blue and 
drops with a crash or a dull thud — according to 
the degree of resistance encountered — among 
the crumbling cottages. All is solitude. 

But stay ! Right on the cross-roads, in the centre 
of the village, just below the fingers of a sign-post 
which indicates the distance to four French town- 
ships, whose names you never heard of until a 
year ago, and now will never forget, there hangs 
a large, white, newly painted board, bearing a 
notice in black letters six inches high. Exactly 
underneath the board, rubbing their noses appre- 



126 



ALL IN IT 



datively against the sign-post, stand two mules, 
attached to a limbered waggon, the property of 
the A.S.C. Their charioteers are sitting adjacent, 
in a convenient shell-hole, partaking of luncheon. 

'^That was a rotten place we 'ad to wait in 
yesterday, Sammy," observes Number One. ^'The 
draught was somethink cruel." 

The recumbent Samuel agrees. ^^This little 
'oiler is a bit of all right," he remarks. '^When 
you've done strarfin' that bully-beef, 'and it 
over, ole man!" 

He leans his head back upon the lip of the shell- 
hole, and gazes pensively at the notice-board six 
feet away. It says : — 



VKRY 


DANGEROUS. 




DO NOT 




LOITER 




HERE. 



Ill 

Here is another cross-roads, a good mile farther 
forward — and less than a hundred yards behind 
the fire-trench. It Is dawn. 

The roads themselves are not so distinct as they 
were. They are becoming grass-grown: for more 
than a year — in dayUght at least — no human 
foot has trodden them. The place is like hundreds 



PASTURES NEW 127 

of others that you may see scattered up and 
down this countryside — two straight, flat, met- 
alled country roads, running north and south and 
east and west, crossing one another at a faultless 
right angle. 

Of the four corners thus created, one is — or 
was — occupied by an estaminet: you can still see 
the sign, Estaminet au Commerce^ over the door. 
Two others contain cottages, — the remains of 
cottages. At the fourth, facing south and east, 
stands what is locally known as a ^^Calvaire," — 
a bank of stone, a lofty cross, and a life-size figure 
of Christ, facing east, towards the German lines. 

This spot is shelled every day — has been 
shelled every day for months. Possibly the enemy 
suspects a machine-gun or an observation post 
amid the tumble-down buildings. Hardly one 
brick remains upon another. And yet — the sor- 
rowful Figure is unbroken. The Body is riddled 
with bullets — in the glowing dawn you may 
count not five but fifty wounds — but the Face 
is untouched. It is the standing miracle of this 
most materialistic war. Throughout the length 
of France you will see the same thing. 

Agnostics ought to come out here, for a ''cure." 

IV 

With spring comes also the thought of the Next 
Push. 

But we do not talk quite so glibly of pushes as 
we did. Neither, for that matter, does Brother 
Boche. He has just completed six weeks' pushing 
at Verdun, and is beginning to be a little uncer- 



128 ALL IN IT 

tain as to which direction the pushing is coming 
from. 

No; once more the mihtary textbooks are be- 
ing rewritten. We started this war under one 
or two rather fallacious premises. One was that 
Artillery was more noisy than dangerous. When 
Antwerp fell, we rescinded that theory. Then the 
Boche set out to demonstrate that an Attack, 
provided your Artillery preparation is sufficiently 
thorough, and you are prepared to set no limit to 
your expenditure of Infantry, must ultimately 
succeed. To do him justice, the Boche supported 
his assertions very plausibly. His phalanx bun- 
dled the Russians all the way from Tannenburg to 
Riga. The Austrians adopted similar tactics, with 
similar results. 

We were duly impressed. The world last sum- 
mer did not quite realize how far the results of 
the campaign were due to German efficiency and 
how far to Russian unpreparedness. (Russia, we 
realise now, found herself in the position of the 
historic Mrs. Partington, who endeavoured to 
repel the Atlantic with a mop. This year, we 
understand, she is;in a position to discard the 
mop in favoiu" of something far, far better.) 

Then came — Verdun. Military science turned 
over yet another page, and noted that against 
consummate generalship, unlimited munitions, 
•and selfless devotion on the part of the defence, 
the most spectacular and highly-doped phalanx 
can spend itself in vain. Military science also 
noted that, under modern conditions, the capture 
of this position or that signifies nothing : the only 



PASTURES NEW 129 

method of computing victory is to count the dead 
on either side. On that reckoning, the French at 
Verdun have already gained one of the great vic- 
tories of all time. 

^'In fact/' said Colonel Kemp, ^Hhis war will 
end when the Boche has lost so many men as to 
be unable to man his present trench-line, and not 
before. '^ 

^^You don't think, sir, that we shall make an- 
other Push?'' suggested Angus M'Lachlan ea- 
gerly. The others were silent: they had experi- 
enced a Push already. 

^^Not so long as the Boche continues to play 
our game for us, by attacking. If he tumbles to 
the error he is making, and digs himself in again 
— well, it may become necessary to draw him. 
In that case, M'Lachlan, you shall have first chop 
at the Victoria Crosses. Afraid I can't recom- 
mend you for your last exploit, though I admit it 
must have required some nerve!" 

There was unseemly laughter at this allusion. 
Four nights previously Angus had been sent out 
in charge of a wiring-party. He had duly crawled 
forth with his satellites, under cover of darkness, 
on to No Man's Land; and, there selecting a row 
of ^^knife-rests" which struck him as being badly 
in need of repair, had well and truly reinforced 
the same with many strands of the most barbar- 
ous brand of barbed wire. This, despite more 
than usually fractious behaviour upon the part 
of the Boche. 

Next morning, through a sniper's loophole, he 
exhibited the result of his labours to Major Wag- 



130 ALL IN IT 

staffe. The Major gazed long and silently upon 
his subordinate's handiwork. There was no mis- 
taking it. It stood out bright and gleaming in the 
rays of the rising sun, amid its dingy surroundings 
of rusty ironmongery. Angus M'Lachlan waited 
anxiously for a little praise. 

^' Jolly good piece of work/' said Major Wag- 
staffe at last. ^'But tell me, why have you re- 
paired the Boche wire instead of yoiu* own?" 

'^The only enemy we have to fear," continued 
Colonel Kemp, rubbing his spectacles savagely, 
'4s the free and independent British voter — I 
mean, the variety of the species that we have left 
at home. Like the gentleman in Jack Point's 
song, 'He likes to get value for money'; and he is 
quite capable of asking us, about June or July, 
' if we know that we are paid to be funny? ' — 
before we are ready. What's yoiu- view of the 
situation at home, Wagstaffe? You're the last 
off leave." 

Wagstaffe shook his head. 

''The British Nation," he said, "is quite mad. 
That fact, of course, has been common property 
on the Continent of Eiu"ope ever since Cook's 
Tours were invented. But what irritates the or- 
derly Boche is that there is no method in its mad- 
ness. Nothing you can go upon, or take hold of, or 
wring any advantage from." 

"As how?" 

"Well, take compulsory service. For genera- 
tions the electorate of our country has been 
trained by a certain breed of politician — the 



PASTURES NEW 131 

Bandar-log of the British Constitution — to howl 
down such a low and degrading business as 
National Defence. A nasty Continental custom, 
they called it. Then came the War, and the glo- 
rious Voluntary System got to work." 

^^ Aided,'' the Colonel interpolated, '^by a cam- 
paign of mural advertisement which a cinema 
star's press agent would have boggled at!'' 

^^ Quite so," agreed Wagstaffe. ^'Next, when 
the Voluntary System had done its damnedest — 
in other words, when the willing horse had been 
worked to his last ounce — we tried the Derby 
Scheme. The manhood of the nation was divided 
into groups, and a fresh method of touting for 
troops was adopted. Married shysters, knowing 
that at least twenty groups stood between them 
and a job of work, attested in comparatively large 
numbers. The single shysters were less reckless 
— so much less reckless, in fact, that compulsion 
began to materialise at last." 

^'But only for single shysters," said Bobby 
Little regretfully. 

^^ Yes; and the married shyster rejoiced accord- 
ingly. But the single shyster is a most subtle rep- 
tile. On examination, it was found that the sin- 
gle members of this noble army of martyrs were 
all ^starred,' or ^reserved', or ^ear-marked' — or 
whatever it is that they dc to these careful fellows. 
So the poor old married shyster, who had only 
attested to show his blooming patriotism and 
encourage the others, suddenly found himself 
confronted with the awful prospect of having to 
defend his country personally, instead of by let- 



132 ALL IN IT 

ter to the halfpenny press. Then the fat was fairly 
in the fire! The married martyr — '^ 

^'Come, come, old man! Not all of them!" 
said Colonel Kemp. '^ I have a married brother of 
my own, a solicitor of thirty-eight, who is simply 
clamouring for active service!" 

^' I know that, sir," admitted Wagstaffe quickly. 
''Thank God, these fellows are only a minority, 
and a freak minority at that; but freak minorities 
seem to get the monopoly of the limelight in our 
unhappy country." 

''The whole affair," mused the Colonel, "can 
hardly be described as a frenzied rally round the 
Old Flag. By God," he broke out suddenly, "it 
fairly makes one's blood boil ! When I think of the 
countless good fellows, married and single, but 
mainly married, who left all and followed the call 
of common decency and duty the moment the 
War broke out — most of them now dead or crip- 
pled; and when I see this miserable handful of 
shirkers, holding up vital public business while 
the pros and cons of their wretched claims to 
exemption are considered — well, I almost wish I 
had been born a Boche!" 

"I don't think you need apply for naturalisa- 
tion papers yet, Colonel," said Wagstaffe. "The 
country is perfectly sound at heart over this ques- 
tion, and always was. The present agitation, as I 
say, is being engineered by the more verminous 
section of our incomparable daily Press, for its 
own ends. It makes our Allies Uft their eyebrows 
a bit; but they are sensible people, and they re- 
alise that although we are a nation of lunatics, 



PASTURES NEW 133 

we usually deliver the goods in the end. As for 
the Boche, poor fellow, the whole business makes 
him perfectly rabid. Here he is, with all his 
splendid organisation and brutal efficiency, and 
he can't even knock a dent into our undisci- 
plined, back-chatting, fool-ridden, self-depreciat- 
ing old country! I, for one, sympathise with the 
Boche profoundly. On paper, we don't deserve to 
win!" 

^'But we shall!" remarked that single-minded 
paladin, Bobby Little. 

'^Of course we shall! And what's more, we are 
going to derive a national benefit out of this war 
which will in itself be worth the price of admis- 
sion!" 

'^How?" asked several voices. 

Wagstaffe looked round the table. The Bat- 
talion were for the moment in Divisional Reserve, 
and consequently out of the trenches. Some one 
had received a box of Coronas from home, and 
the mess president had achieved a bottle of port. 
Hence the present symposium at Headquarters 
Mess. Wagstaffe's eyes twinkled. 

''Will each officer present," he said, ''kindly 
name his pet aversion among his fellow-crea- 
tures?" 

"A person or a type?" asked Mr. Waddell cau- 
tiously. 

''A type." 

Colonel Kemp led off. 

"Male ballet-dancers," he said. 

"Fat, shiny men," said Bobby Little, "with 
walrus mustaches!" 



134 ALL IN IT 

''All conscientious objectors, passive resisters, 
pacifists, and other cranks!" continued the ortho- 
dox Waddell. 

''All people who go on strike during war-time,'' 
said the Adjutant. There was an approving mur- 
mur — then silence. 

"Your contribution, M'Lachlan?" said Wag- 
staffe. 

Angus, who had kept silence from shyness, sud- 
denly blazed out : — 

"I think," he said, "that the most contempti- 
ble people in the world to-day are those politicians 
and others who, in years gone by, systematically 
cried down anything in the shape of national de- 
fence or national inclination to personal service, 
because they saw there were no votes in such a pro- 
gramme; and who now^^ — Angus's passion rose 
to fever-heat, — "stand up and endeavour to 
cultivate popular favoiu* by reviling the Ministry 
and the Army for want of preparedness and ini- 
tiative. Such men do not deserve to live! Oh, 
sirs — " 

But Angus's peroration was lost in a storm of 
applause. 

"You are adjudged to have hit the bull's-eye, 
M'Lachlan," said Colonel Kemp. "But tell us, 
Wagstaffe, yom* exact object in compiling this 
horrible catalogue." 

"Certainly. It is this. Universal Service is a 
fait accompli at last, or is shortly going to be — 
and without anything very much in the way of 
exemption either. When it comes, just think of it! 
All these delightful people whom we have been 



PASTURES NEW 135 

enumerating will have to toe the line at last. For 
the first time in their little lives they will learn the 
meaning of discipline, and fresh air, and esprit de 
corps. Is n't that worth a war? If the present 
scrap can only be prolonged for another year, our 
country will receive a tonic which will carry it on 
for another century. Think of it! Great Britain, 
populated by men who have actually been outside 
their own parish; men who know that the whole 
is greater than the part; men who are too wide 
awake to go on doing just what the Bandar-log tell 
them, and allow themselves to be used as stalking- 
horses for low-down poUtical ramps! When we, 
going round in bath-chairs and on crutches, see 
that sight — well, I don't think we shall regret 
our missing arms and legs quite so much, Col- 
onel. War is Hell, and all that; but there is one 
worse thing than a long war, and that is a long 
peace!" 

'^I wonder!" said Colonel Kemp reflectively. 
He was thinking of his wife and four children in 
distant Argyllshire. 

But the rapt attitude and quickened breath of 
Temporary Captain BobbyLittle endorsed every 
word that Major Wagstaffe had spoken. As he 
rolled into his ^^ flea-bag" that night, Bobby re- 
quoted to himself, for the hundredth time, a pas- 
sage from Shakespeare which had recently come 
to his notice. He was not a Shakespearian scholar, 
nor indeed a student of literature at all; but these 
lines had been sent to him, cut out of a daily 
almanac, by an equally unlettered and very ador- 
able confidante at home: — 



136 ALL IN IT 

• "And gentlemen in England now a-bed, 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day! " 

Bobby was the sort of person who would thor- 
oughly have enjoyed the Battle of Agincoiu-t. 



VIII 



"the non-combatant" 



We will call the village St. Gr^goire. That is not 
its real name; because the one thing you must not 
do in war-time is to call a thing by its real name. 
To take a hackneyed example, you do not call 
a spade a spade: you refer to it, officially, as 
Shovels, General Service, One. This helps to de- 
ceive, and ultimately to surprise, the enemy ; and 
as we all know by this time, surprise is the essence 
of successful warfare. On the same principle, if 
your troops are forced back from their front-Une 
trenches, you call this ^'successfully straightening 
out an awkward salient." 

But this by the way. Let us get back to 
St. Gregoire. Hither, mud-splashed, ragged, hol- 
low-cheeked, came our battalion — they call us 
the Seventh Hairy Jocks nowadays — after four 
months' continuous employment in the firing-line. 
Ypres was a household word to them; Plugstreet 
was familiar ground; Givenchy they knew inti- 
mately; Loos was their wash-pot — or rather, a 
collection of wash-pots, for in winter all the shell- 
craters are full to overflowing. In addition to their 
prolonged and strenuous labours in the trenches, 
the Hairy Jocks had taken part in a Push — a 
part not altogether unattended with glory, but 
prolific in casualties. They had not been '^ pulled 



138 ALL IN IT 

out" to rest and refit for over six months, for 
Divisions on the Western Front were n6t at 
that period too numerous, the voluntary system 
being at its last gasp, while the legions of Lord 
Derby had not yet crystallised out of the ocean of 
public talk which held them in solution. So the 
Seventh Hairy Jocks were bone tired. But they 
were as hard as a rigorous winter in the open 
could make them, and — they were going back to 
rest at last. Had not their beloved CO. told them 
so? And he had added, in a voice not altogether 
free from emotion, that if ever men deserved a 
solid rest and a good time, '^you boys do!" 

So the Hairy Jocks trudged along the long, 
straight, nubbly French road, well content, spec- 
ulating with comfortable pessimism as to the 
character of the billets in which they would find 
themselves. 

Meanwhile, ten miles ahead, the advance party 
were going round the town in quest of the billets. 

Billet-hunting on the Western Front is not 
quite so desperate an affair as hunting for lodgings 
at Margate, because in the last extremity you can 
always compel the inhabitants to take you in — 
or at least, exert pressure to that end through the 
Mairie. But at the best one's course is strewn 
with obstacles, and fortunate is the Adjutant who 
has to his hand a subaltern capable of finding 
lodgings for a thousand men without making a 
mess of it. 

The billeting officer on this, as on most occa- 
sions, was our friend Cockerell, — affectionately 
known to the entire Battalion as ^'Sparrow," — 



THE NON-COMBATANT 139 

and his qualifications for the post were derived 
from three well-marked and invaluable charac- 
teristics, namely, an imperious disposition, a thick 
skin, and an attractive bonhomie of manner. 

Behold him this morning dismounting from his 
horse in the place of St, Gregoire. Around him are 
grouped his satelhtes — the Quartermaster-Ser- 
geant, four Company Sergeants, some odd order- 
lies, and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uni- 
form with light blue facings, — the regimental 
interpreter. The party have descended, with the 
delicate care of those who essay to perform acro- 
batic feats in kilts, from bicycles — serviceable 
but appallingly heavy machines of Government 
manufacture, the property of the ^^ Buzzers,^' but 
commandeered for the occasion. The Quarter- 
master-Sergeant, who is not accustomed to stren- 
uous exercise, mops his brow and glances expect- 
antly round the place. His eye comes gently to 
rest upon a small but hospitable-looking estaminet. 

Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch. 

* ' Half -past ten ! " he announces. ' ' Quartermas- 
ter-Sergeant!'^ 

^'Sirr!'' The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues 
his longing gaze from the estaminet and comes 
woodenly to attention. 

^'I am going to see the Town Major about a 
billeting area. I will meet you and the party here 
in twenty minutes." 

Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed 
steed, followed by the respectful and apprecia- 
tive salutes of his followers — appreciative, be- 
cause a less considerate officer would have taken 



140 ALL IN IT 

the whole party direct to the Town Major's office 
and kept them standing in the street, wasting 
moments which might have been better employed 
elsewhere, until it was time to proceed with the 
morning's work. 

"How strong are you?'' inquired the Town 
Major. 

Cockerell told him. The Town Major whistled. 

"That all? Been doing some job of work, 
have n't you?" 

Cockerell nodded, and the Town Major pro- 
ceeded to examine a large-scale plan of St. Gre- 
goire, divided up into different-coloured plots. 

"We are rather full up at present," he said; 
"but the Cemetery Area is vacant. The Seven- 
teenth Geordies moved out yesterday. You can 
have that." He indicated a triangular section 
with his pencil. 

Master Cockerell gave a deprecatory cough. 

"We have come here, sir," he intimated dryly, 
"for a change of scene." 

The stout Town Major — all Town Majors are 
stout — chuckled. 

"Not bad for a Scot!" he conceded. "But it's 
quite a cheery district, really. You won't have 
to doss down in the cemetery itself, you know. 
These two streets here — "he flicked a pencil — 
"will hold practically all your battalion, at its 
present strength. There's a capital house in the 
Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau which will do for 
BattaUon Headquarters. The corporal over there 
will give you your billets de logemenV^ 



THE NON-COMBATANT 141 



(< 



Are there any other troops in the area, sir?" 
asked Cockerell, who, as already indicated, was 
no child in these matters. 

^^ There ought not to be, of course. But you 
know what the Heavy Gunners and the A.S.C. 
are! If you come across any of them, fire them 
out. If they wear too many stars and crowns for 
you, let me know, and I will perform the feat my- 
self. You fellows need a good rest and no worries, 
I know. Good-morning." 

At ten minutes to eleven Cockerell found the 
Quartermaster-Sergeant and party, wiping their 
mustaches and visibly refreshed, at the exact spot 
where he had left them; and the hunt for billets 
began. 

^' A" Company were easily provided for, a dere- 
lict tobacco factory being encountered at the 
head of the first street. Lieutenant Cockerell 
accordingly detached a sergeant and a corporal 
from his train, and passed on. The wants of '^B" 
Company were supplied by conamandeering a 
block of four dilapidated houses farther down the 
street — all in comparatively good repair except 
the end house, whose roof had been disarranged 
by a shell during the open fighting in the early 
days of the war. 

This exhausted the possibilities of the first 
street, and the party debouched into the second, 
which was long and straggling, and composed 
entirely of small houses. 

^'Now for a bit of the retail business!" said 
Master Cockerell resignedly. '^Sergeant M'Nab, 
what is the strength of 'C Company?" 



142 ALL IN IT 



a, 



One hunner and thairty-fower other ranks, 
sirr/' announced Sergeant M'Nab, consulting a 
much-thumbed roll-book. 

^' We shall have to put them in twos and threes 
all down the street," said Cockerell. ''Come on; 
the longer we look at it the less we shall like it. 
Interpreter!" 

The forlorn little man, already described, 
trotted up, and saluted with open hand, French 
fashion. His name was Baptiste Bombominet 
C'or words to that effect," as the Adjutant put 
it), and may have been so inscribed upon the 
regimental roll; but throughout the rank and file 
Baptiste was affectionately known by the generic 
title of ''Alphonso." The previous seven years 
had been spent by him in the congenial and 
blameless atmosphere of a Ladies' Tailor's in the 
west end of London, where he enjoyed the status 
and emoluments of chief cutter. Now, called back 
to his native land by the voice of patriotic obliga- 
tion, he found himself selected, by virtue of a resi- 
dence of seven years in England, to act as official 
interpreter between a Scottish Regiment which 
could not speak English, and Flemish peasants 
who could not speak French. No wonder that his 
pathetic brown eyes always appeared full of tears. 
However, he followed Cockerell down the street, 
and meekly embarked upon a contest with the 
lady inhabitants thereof, in which he was hope- 
lessly outmatched from the start. 

At the first door a dame of massive proportions, 
but keen business instincts, announced her total 
inability to accommodate soldats, but explained 



THE NON-COMBATANT 143 

that she would be pleased to entertain officiers to 
any number. This is a common gambit. Twenty 
British privates in your grenier, though extraordi- 
narily well-behaved as a class, make a good deal 
of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere. 
On the other hand, two or three officers give no 
trouble, and can be relied upon to consume and 
pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee. 

That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, 
turned promptly to the Sergeant and Corporal of 
'^C Company. 

^^ Sergeant M'Nab," he said, **you and Cor- 
poral Downie will billet here." He introduced 
hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the 
hand. But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed. 

"Pas de sergents, Monsieur le Capitaine!^^ she 
exclaimed. ' ^ Officiers ! ' ' 

"lis sont officiers — sous-officiers/^ explained 
Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off 
down the street. 

At the next house the owner — a small, wiz- 
ened lady of negligible physique but great stay- 
ing power — entered upon a duet with Alphonso, 
which soon reduced that very moderate performer 
to breathlessness. He shrugged his shoulders 
feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards the 
Lieutenant. 

'^What does she say?" inquired Cockerell. 

'^ She say dis 'ouse no good, sair ! She 'ave seven 
children, and one malade — seek." 

" Let me see," commanded the practical officer. 

He insinuated himself as politely as possible 
past his reluctant opponent, and walked down the 



144 ALL IN IT 

narrow passage into the kitchen. Here he turned, 
and inquired — 

^'Er — oil est la pauvre petite chose? ^^ 

Madame promptly opened a door, and dis- 
played a little girl in bed — a very flushed and 
feverish Uttle girl. 

Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the pa- 
tient, to that young lady's obvious gratification; 
and turned to the mother. 

*'Je suis tres — triste/' he said; "fat grand mis- 
ericorde. Je ne placerai pas de soldats id. Bon 
jour!'' 

By this time he was in the street again. He 
saluted politely and departed, followed by the 
grateful regards of Madame. 

No special difficulties were encountered at the 
next few houses. The ladies at the house-door 
were all polite; many of them were most friendly; 
but naturally each was anxious to get as few men 
and as many officers as possible — except the 
proprietess of an estaminet, who offered to accom- 
modate the entire regiment. However, with a lit- 
tle tact here and a little firmness there, Master 
Cockerell succeeded in distributing '^C" Com- 
pany among some dozen houses. One old gen- 
tleman, with a black alpaca cap and a six-days 
beard, proprietor of a lofty establishment at the 
corner of the street, proved not only recalcitrant, 
but abusive. With him Cockerell dealt promptly. 

^^Qa suffit!'' he announced. '^Montrez-moi vo- 
ire grenierT' 

The old man, grumbling, led the way up nu- 
merous rickety staircases to the inevitable loft 



THE NON-COMBATANT 145 

under the tiles. This proved to be a noble apart- 
ment thirty feet long. From wall to wall stretched 
innumerable strings. 

^'We can get a whole platoon in here," said 
Cockerell contentedly. ''Tell him, Alphonso. 
These people," he explained to Sergeant M'Nab, 
'' always dislike giving up their lofts, because they 
hang their laundry there in winter. However, the 
old boy must lump it. After all, we are in this 
country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid 
for every man who sleeps here. That fixes 'C 
Company. Now for 'D'! The other side of the 
street this time." 

Quarters were found in due course for ''D" 
Company; after which Cockerell discovered a 
vacant buijding-site which would serve for trans- 
port lines. An empty garage was marked down 
for the Quartermaster's ration store, and the 
Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly faded into its 
recesses with a grateful sigh. An empty shop 
in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently 
adjacent to Battalion Headquarters, was appro- 
priated for that gregarious band, the regimental 
signallers and telephone section; while a suitable 
home for the Anarchists, or Bombers, together 
with their stock-in-trade, was found in the base- 
ment of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the 
area. 

After this. Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with 
Alphonso and the orderly in charge of his horse, 
heaved a sigh of exhaustion and transferred his 
attention from his notebook to his watch. 

''That finishes the rank and file," he said. "I 



> 



146 ALL IN IT 

breakfasted at four this morning, and the bat- 
talion won't arrive for a couple of hours yet. 
Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette some- 
where. I shall want you in half an hour exactly. 
Don't go wandering off for the rest of the day, 
pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant- 
Major and your other pals, as you usually do!" 

Alphonso saluted guiltily — evidently the as- 
tute Cockerell had 'touched the spot" — and 
was turning away, when suddenly the billeting 
officer's eye encountered an illegible scrawl at 
the very foot of his list. 

''Stop a moment, Alphonso! I have forgot- 
ten those condemned machine-gunners, as usual. 
Strafe them! Come on! Once more into the 
breach, Alphonso! There is a little side-alley 
down here that we have not tried." 

The indefatigable Cockerell turned down the 
Rue Gambetta, followed by Alphonso, faint but 
resigned. , 

''Here is the very place!" announced Cockerell 
almost at once. "This house. Number Five. We 
can put the gunners and their little guns into that 
stable at the back, and the officer can have a room 
in the house itself. Sonnez, for the last time be- 
fore lunch!" 

The door was opened by a pleasant-faced 
young woman of about thirty, who greeted Cock- 
erell — tartan is always popular with French ladies 
— with a beaming smile, but shook her head re- 
gretfully upon seeing the hillet de logement in his 
hand. The inevitable duet with Alphonso fol- 
lowed. Presently Alphonso turned to his superior. 



THE NON-COMBATANT 147 

"Madame is ver' sorry, sair, but an officier is 
here already/' 

^^Show me the officier T^ replied the prosaic 
Cockerell. 

The duet was resumed. 

"Madame say," announced Alphonso presently, 
"that the officier is not here now; but he will 
return." 

"So will Christmas! Meanwhile I am going to 
put an Emma Gee officer in here." 

Alphonso's desperate attempt to translate the 
foregoing idiom into French was interrupted by 
Madame's retirement into the house, whither she 
beckoned Cockerell to follow her. In the front 
room she produced a frayed sheet of paper, which 
she proffered with an apologetic smile. The paper 
said : — 

This billet is entirely reserved for the Supply 
Officer of this District. It is not to he occupied by 
troops passing through the town. 

By Order. 

Lieutenant Cockerell whistled softly and vin- 
dictively through his teeth. 

"Well," he said, '^for consummate and con- 
centrated nerve, give me the underlings of the 
A.S.C.! This pot-bellied blighter not only butts 
into an area which does n't belong to him, but 
actually leaves a chit to warn people off the grass 
even when he is n't here! He has n't signed the 
document, I observe. That means that he is a 
newly joined subaltern, trying to get mistaken for 
a Brass Hat! I'll fix /im.'" 



148 ALL IN IT 

With great stateliness Lieutenant Cockerell 
tore the offending screed into four portions, to the 
audible concern of Madame. But the Lieutenant 
smiled reassuringly upon her. 

^Ve vous donnerai un autre, vous savez/' he 
assured her. 

He sat down at the table, tore a leaf from his 
Field Service Pocket Book, and wrote : — 

The Supply Officer of the District is at liberty to 
occupy this billet only at such times as it is not re- 
quired by the troops of the Combatant Services. 
Signed, F. J. Cockerell, 
Lieut. & Asst. Adj., 

7th B. & W. Highes. 

''That^s a pretty nasty one!" he observed with 
relish. Then, having pinned the insulting docu- 
ment conspicuously to the mantelpiece, he ob- 
served to the mystified lady of the house : — 

"Voild, Madame. Si Vofficier reviendra, je le 
verrai moi-meme, avec grand plaisir. Bon jour f 

And with this dark saying Sparrow Cockerell 
took his departure. 

II 

The Battalion, headed by their tatterdemalion 
pipers, stumped into the town in due course, and 
were met on the outskirts by the billeting party, 
who led the various companies to their appointed 
place. After inspecting their new quarters, and 
announcing with gloomy satisfaction that they 
were the worst, dirtiest, and most uncomfortable 
yet encountered, everybody settled down in the 



THE NON-COMBATANT 149 

best place he could find, and proceeded to make 
himself remarkably snug. 

Battalion Headquarters and the officers of ^^A" 
Company were billeted in an imposing mansion 
which actually boasted a bathroom. It is true 
that there was no water, but this deficiency was 
soon made good by a string of officers' servants 
bearing buckets. Beginning with Colonel Kemp, 
who was preceded by an orderly bearing a small 
towel and a large loofah, each officer performed a 
ceremonial ablution; and it was a collection of 
what Major Wagstaffe termed ^^ bright and bonny 
young faces" which collected round the Mess ta- 
ble at seven o'clock. 

It was in every sense a gala meal. Firstly, it 
was weeks since any one (except Second Lieuten- 
ant M'Corquodale, newly joined, and addressed, 
for painfully obvious reasons, as ''Tich") had 
found himself at table in an apartment where it 
was possible to stand upright. Secondly, the Mess 
President had coaxed glass tumblers out of the 
ancient concierge; and only those who have drunk 
from enamelled ironware for weeks on end can 
appreciate the pure joy of escape from the in- 
determinate metallic flavour which such vessels 
impart to all beverages. Thirdly, these same 
tumblers were filled to the brim with inferior 
but exhilarating champagne — purchased, as they 
euphemistically put it in the Supply Column, 
'locally." Lastly, the battalion had several 
months of hard fighting behind it, probably a full 
month's rest before it, and the conscience of duty 
done and recognition earned floating like a halo 



150 ALL IN IT 

above it. For the moment memories of Night- 
mare Wood and the Kidney Bean Redoubt — 
more especially the latter — were effaced. Even 
the sorrowful gaps in the ring round the table 
seemed less noticeable. 

The menu, too, was almost pretentious. First 
came the hors d'ceuvres — a tin of sardines. This 
was followed by what the Mess Corporal de- 
scribed as a savoury omelette, but which the 
Second-in-Command condemned as '^a regretta- 
ble incident." 

'^It is false economy," he observed dryly to the 
Mess President, 'Ho employ Mark One ^ eggs as 
anything but hand-grenades." 

However, the tide of popular favour turned 
with the haggis, contributed by Lieutenant Angus 
M'Lachlan, from a parcel from home. Even the 
fact that the Mess cook, an inexperienced aesthete 
from Islington, had endeavoured to tone down the 
naked repulsiveness of the dainty with discreet 
festoons of tinned macaroni, failed to arouse the 
resentment of a purely Scottish Mess. The next 
course — the beef ration, hacked into the inevi- 
table gobbets and thinly disguised by a sprinkling 
of cm-ry powder — aroused no enthusiasm; but 
the unexpected production of a large tin of Devon- 
shire cream, contributed by Captain Bobby Lit- 
tle, relieved the canned peaches of their custom- 
ary monotony. Last of all came a savoury — 
usually described as the savoiu-y — consisting of 
a raft of toast per person, each raft carrying an 

^ In the British army each issue of arms or equipment re- 
ceives a distinctive " Mark." Mark 1 denotes the earliest issue. 



THE NON-COMBATANT 151 

abundant cargo of fried potted meat, and pro- 
vided with a passenger in the shape of a recum- 
bent sausage. 

A compound of grounds and dish-water, de- 
scribed by the optimistic Mess Corporal as coffee, 
next made its appearance, mitigated by a bottle 
of Cointreau and a box of Panatellas; and the 
Mess turned itself to more intellectual refresh- 
ment. A heavy and long-overdue mail had been 
found waiting at St. Gregoire. Letters had been 
devoured long ago. Now, each member of the 
Mess leaned back in his chair, straightened his 
weary legs under the table, and settled down, 
cigar in mouth, to the perusal of the Spectator or 
the Tatler, according to rank and literary taste. 

Colonel Kemp, unfolding a week-old Times, 
looked over his glasses at his torpid disciples. 

"Where is young Sandeman?'' he inquired. 

Young Sandeman was the Adjutant. 

"He went out to the Orderly Room, sir, five 
minutes ago," replied Bobby Little. 

"I only want to give him to-morrow's Orders. 
No doubt he '11 be back presently. I may as well 
mention to you fellows that I propose to allow the 
men three clear days' rest, except for bathing and 
re-clothing. After that we must do Company 
Drill, good and hard, so as to polish up the new 
draft, who are due to-morrow. I am going to 
start a bombing-school, too : at least seventy-five 
per cent of the Battalion ought to pass the test 
before we go back to the line. However, we need 
not rush things. We should be here in peace for at 
least a month. We must get up some sports, and 



152 ALL IN IT 

I think it would be a sound scheme to have a sing- 
song one Saturday night. I was just saying, San- 
deman," — this to the Adjutant, who reentered 
the room at that moment, — ''that it would be a 
sound — " 

The Adjutant laid a pink field- telegraph slip 
before his superior. 

''This has just come in from Brigade Head- 
quarters, sir," he said. "I have sent for the 
Sergeant-Maj or . " 

The Colonel adjusted his glasses and read the 
despatch. A deathly, sickening silence reigned in 
the room. Then he looked up. 

"I am afraid I was a bit previous," he said 
quietly. "The Royal Stickybacks have lost the 
Kidney Bean, and we are detailed to go up and 
retake it. Great compliment to the regiment, but 
a trifle mistimed! You young fellows had better 
go to bed. Parade at 4 a.m., sharp! Good-night! 
Come along to the Orderly Room, Sandeman." 

The door closed, and the Mess, grinding the 
ends of their cigars into their coffee-cups, heaved 
themselves resignedly to their aching feet. 

"There ain't," quoted Major Wagstaffe, "no 
word in the blooming language for it!" 

in , 

The Kidney Bean Redoubt is the key to a very 
considerable sector of trenches. 

It lies just behind a low ridge. The two horns 
of the bean are drawn back out of sight of the 
enemy, but the middle swells forward over the sky- 
line and commands an extensive view of the coim- 



THE NON-COMBATANT 153 

try beyond. Direct observation of artillery fire is 
possible: consequently an armoured observation 
post has been constructed here, from which gun- 
ner officers can direct the fire of their batteries 
with accuracy and elegance. Lose the Kidney 
Bean, and the boot is on the other leg. The enemy 
has the upper ground now i he can bring observed 
artillery fire to bear upon all our tenderest spots 
behind the line. He can also enfilade our front- 
line trenches. 

Well, as already stated, the Twenty-Second 
Royal Stickybacks had lost the Kidney Bean. 
They were a battalion of recent formation, stout- 
hearted fellows all, but new to the refinements of 
intensive trench warfare. When they took over the 
sector, they proceeded to leave undone various 
vital things which the Hairy Jocks had always 
made a point of doing, and to do various unnec- 
essary things which the Hairy Jocks had never 
done. The observant Hun promptly recognised 
that he was faced by a fresh batch of opponents, 
and, having carefully studied the characteristics 
of the newcomers, prescribed and administered 
an exemplary dose of frightfulness. He began 
by tickling up the Stickybacks with an un- 
pleasant engine called the Minenwerfer, which 
despatches a large sausage-shaped projectile in 
a series of ridiculous somersaults, high over No 
Man's Land into the enemy's front-line trench, 
where it explodes and annihilates everything in 
that particular bay. Upon these occasions one's 
only chance of salvation is to make a rapid calcu- 
lation as to the bay into which the sausage is going 



154 ALL IN IT 

to fall, and then double speedily round a traverse 
— or, if possible, two traverses — into another. 
It is an exhilarating pastime, but presents com- 
plications when played by a large number of per- 
sons in a restricted space, especially when the 
persons aforesaid are not unanimous as to the 
ultimate landing-place of the projectile. 

After a day and a night of these aerial torpedoes 
the Hun proceeded to an intensive artillery bom- 
bardment. He had long coveted the Kidney 
Bean, and instinct told him that he would never 
have a better opportunity of capturing it than 
now. Accordingly, two hours before dawn, the Re- 
doubt was subjected to a sudden, simultaneous, 
and converging fire from all the German artillery 
for many miles round, the whole being topped 
up with a rain of those crowning instruments of 
demoralisation, gas-shells. At the same time an 
elaborate curtain of shrapnel and high explosive 
was let down behind the Redoubt, to serve the 
double purpose of preventing either the sending 
up of reinforcements or the temporary withdrawal 
of the garrison. 

At the first streak of dawn the bombardment 
was switched off, as if by a tap; the curtain fire 
was redoubled in volume; and a massed attack 
swept across the disintegrated wire into the shat- 
tered and pulverised Redoubt. Other attacks 
were launched on either flank ; but these were ob- 
vious blinds, intended to prevent a too concen- 
trated defence of the Kidney Bean. The Royal 
Stickybacks — what was left of them — put up a 
tough fight; but half of them were lying dead or 



THE NON-COMBATANT 155 

buried, or both, before the assault was launched, 
and the rest were too dazed and stupefied by- 
noise and chlorine gas to withstand — much less 
to repel — the overwhelming phalanx that was 
hurled against them. One by one they went down, 
until the enemy troops, having swamped the 
Redoubt, gathered themselves up in a fresh wave 
and surged towards the reserve-line trenches, four 
hundred yards distant. At this point, however, 
they met a strong counter-attack, launched from 
the Brigade Reserve, and after heavy fighting 
were bundled back into the Redoubt itself. Here 
the German machine-guns had staked out a de- 
fensive line, and the German retirement came to 
a standstill. 

Meanwhile a German digging party, many 
hundred strong, had been working madly in No 
Man^s Land, striving to link up the newly ac- 
quired ground with the German lines. By the 
afternoon the Kidney Bean was not only ^^ re- 
versed and consolidated, '' but was actually in- 
cluded in the enemy's front trench system. Alto- 
gether a well-planned and admirably executed 
little operation. 

Forty-eight hours later the Kidney Bean Re- 
doubt was recaptured, and remains in British 
hands to this day. Many arms of the Service took 
honourable part in the enterprise — heavy guns, 
field guns, trench-mortars, machine-guns; Sap- 
pers and Pioneers; Infantry in various capacities. 
But this narrative is concerned only with the part 
played by the Seventh Hairy Jocks. 

''Sorry to pull you back from rest, Colonel/' 



156 ALL IN IT 

said the Brigadier, when the commander of the 
Hairy Jocks reported; '^but the Divisional Gen- 
eral considers that the only feasible way to hunt 
the Boche from the Kidney Bean is to bomb him 
out of it. That means trench-fighting, pure and 
simple. I have called you up because you fellows 
know the ins and outs of the Kidney Bean as no 
one else does. The Brigade who are in the line 
just now are quite new to the place. Here is an 
aeroplane photograph of the Redoubt, as at pres- 
ent constituted. Tell off your own bombing par- 
ties; make your own dispositions; send me a copy 
of your provisional orders; and I will fit my plan 
in with yours. The Corps Commander has prom- 
ised to back you with every gun, trench-mortar, 
culverin, and arquebus in his possession." 

In due course Battalion Orders were issued and 
approved. They dealt with operations most bar- 
barous amid localities of the most homelike sound. 
Number Nine Platoon, for instance (Commander 
Lieutenant Cockerell), were to proceed in single 
file, carrying so many grenades per man, up Char- 
ing Cross Road, until stopped by the barrier 
which the enemy were understood to have erected 
in Trafalgar Square, where a bombing-post and at 
least one machine-gun would probably be encoun- 
tered. At this point they were to wait until Tra- 
falgar Square had been suitably dealt with by a 
trench-mortar. (Here followed a paragraph ad- 
dressed exclusively to the Trench-Mortar Officer.) 
After this the bombers of Number Three Platoon 
would bomb their way across the Square and up 
the Strand. Another party would clear North- 



THE NON-COMBATANT 157 

umberland Avenue, while a Lewis gun raked 
Whitehall. And so on. Every detail was thought 
out, down to the composition of the parties which 
were to ^^ clean up" afterwards — that is, extract 
the reluctant Boche from various underground 
fastnesses well known to the extractors. The whole 
enterprise was then thoroughly rehearsed in some 
dummy trenches behind the line, until every one 
knew his exact part. Such is modern warfare. 

Next day the Kidney Bean Redoubt was in 
British hands again. The Hun — what was left 
of him after an intensive bombardment of twenty- 
four hours — had betaken himself back over the 
ridge, via the remnants of his two new communi- 
cation trenches, to his original front line. The 
two communication trenches themselves were 
blocked and sandbagged, and were being heavily 
supervised by a pair of British machine-guns. 
Fighting in the Redoubt itself had almost ceased, 
though a humorous sergeant, followed by acolytes 
bearing bombs, was still '^combing out" certain 
residential districts in the centre of the maze. 
Ever and anon he would stoop down at the en- 
trance of some deep dug-out, and bawl — 

'^Ony mair doon there? Come away, Fritz! 
I'll gie ye five seconds. Yin, Twa, Three — " 

Then, with a rush like a bolt of rabbits, two or 
three close-cropped, grimy Huns would scuttle up 
from below and project themselves from one of 
the exits; to be taken in charge by grinning Cale- 
donians wearing 'Hin hats" very much awry, and 
escorted back through the barrage to the '^ pris- 
oners' base" in rear. 



158 ALL IN IT 

All through the day, amidst unremitting shell 
fire and local counter-attack, the Hairy Jocks re- 
consolidated the Kidney Bean; and they were 
so far successful that when they handed over the 
work to another battalion at dusk, the parapet 
was restored, the machine-guns were in position, 
and a number of '^ knife-rest" barbed- wire en- 
tanglements were lying just behind the trench, 
ready to be hoisted over the parapet and joined 
together in a continuous defensive line as soon as 
the night was sufficiently dark. 

One by one the members of Number Nine 
Platoon squelched — for it had rained hard all 
day — back to the reserve line. They were ut- 
terly exhausted, and still inclined to feel a little 
aggrieved at having been pulled out from rest; 
but they were well content. They had done the 
State some service, and they knew it; and they 
knew that the higher powers knew it too. There 
would be some very flattering reading in Divi- 
sional Orders in a few days' time. 

Meanwhile, their most pressing need was for 
something to eat. To be sure, every man had 
gone into action that morning carrying his day's 
rations. But the British soldier, improvident as 
the grasshopper, carries his day's rations in one 
place, and one place only — his stomach. The 
Hairy Jocks had eaten what they required at their 
extremely early breakfast: the residue thereof 
they had abandoned. 

About midnight Master Cockerell, in obedi- 
ence to a most welcome order, led the renmants 
of his command, faint but triumphant^ back froni 



THE NON-COMBATANT 159 

the reserve line to a road junction two miles in 
rear, known as Dead Dog Corner. Here the Bat- 
talion was to rendezvous, and march back by easy 
stages to St. Gregoire. Their task was done. 

But at the cross-roads Number Nine Platoon 
found no Battalion: only a solitary subaltern, 
with his orderly. This young Casablanca in- 
formed Cockerell that he. Second Lieutenant 
Candlish, had been left behind to '^ bring in strag- 
glers.'^ 

^^ Stragglers?'' exclaimed the infuriated Cock- 
erell. ^^Do we look like stragglers?" 

'^No," replied the youthful Candlish frankly; 
''you look more like sweeps. However, you had 
better push on. The Battalion is n't far ahead. 
The order is to march straight back to St. Gre- 
goire and re-occupy former billets." 

''What about rations?" 

''Rations? The Quartermaster was waiting 
here for us when we rendezvoused, and every man 
had a full ration and a tot of rum." (Number 
Nine Platoon cleared their parched throats ex- 
pectantly.) "But I fancy he has gone on with the 
column. However, if you leg it you should catch 
them up. They can't be more than two miles 
ahead. So long!" 

IV 

But the task was hopeless. Number Nine Pla- 
toon had been bombing, hacking, and digging all 
day. Several of them were slightly wounded — 
the serious cases had been taken off long ago by 
the stretcher-bearers — and Cpckereirs own head 



160 ALL IN IT 

was still dizzy from the fumes of a German gas- 
shell. 

He lined up his disreputable paladins in the 
darkness, and spoke — 

'^Sergeant M'Nab, how many men are pres- 
ent?" 

^'Eighteen, sirr." The platoon had gone into 
action thirty-four strong. 

''How many men are deficient of an emergency 
ration? I can make a good guess, but you had 
better find out." 

Five minutes later the Sergeant reported. 
Cockerell's guess was correct. The British pri- 
vate has only one point of view about the 
portable property of the State. To him, as an 
individual, the sacred emergency ration is an un- 
necessary encumbrance, and the carrying thereof 
a ''fatigue." Consequently, when engaged in bat- 
tle, one of the first (of many) things which he jet- 
tisons is this very ration. When all is over, he 
reports with unctuous solemnity that the prov- 
ender in question has been blown out of his hav- 
ersack by a shell. The Quartermaster-Sergeant 
writes it off as "lost owing to the exigencies of 
military service," and indents for another. 

Lieutenant Cockerell's haversack contained a 
packet of meat-lozenges and about half a pound 
of chocolate. These were presented to the Ser- 
geant. 

"Hand these round as far as they will go, Ser- 
geant," said Cockerell. "They'll make a mouth- 
ful a man, anyhow. Tell the platoon to lie down 
for ten minutes; then we'll push off. It's only 



THE NON-COMBATANT 161 

fifteen miles. We ought to make it by breakfast- 
time . . /' 

Slowly, mechanically, all through the winter 
night the victors hobbled along. Cockerell led the 
way, carrying the rifle of a man with a wounded 
arm. Occasionally he checked his bearings with 
map and electric torch. Sergeant M'Nab, who, 
under a hirsute and attenuated exterior, con- 
cealed a constitution of ferro-concrete and the 
heart of a lion, brought up the rear, uttering fal- 
lacious assurances to the faint-hearted as to the 
shortness of the distance now to be covered, and 
carrying two rifles. 

The customary halts were observed. At ten 
minutes to four the men flung themselves down 
for the third time. They had covered about seven 
miles, and were still eight or nine from St. Gr6- 
goire. The everlasting constellation of Verey 
lights still rose and fell upon the eastern horizon 
behind them, but the guns were silent. 

''There might be a Heavy Battery dug in some- 
where about here,'' mused Cockerell. ''I wonder 
if we could touch them for a few tins of bully. 
Hallo, what's that?'' 

A distant rumble came from the north, and 
out of the darkness loomed a British motor-lorry, 
lurching and swaying along the rough cobbles of 
the pave. Some of Cockerell's men were lying dead 
asleep in the middle of the road, right at the junc- 
tion. The lorry was going twenty miles an hour. 

''Get into the side of the road, you men!" 
shouted Cockerell, "or they'll run over you. 
You know what these M.T. drivers are I" 



162 ALL IN IT 

With indignant haste, and at the last possible 
moment, the kilted figures scattered to either side 
of the narrow causeway. The usual stereotyped 
and vitriolic remonstrances were hurled after the 
great hooded vehicle as it lurched past. 

And then a most unusual thing happened. The 
lorry slowed down, and finally stopped, a hun- 
dred yards away. An officer descended, and began 
to walk back. Cockerell rose to his weary feet 
and walked to meet him. 

The officer wore a major's crown upon the 
shoulder-straps of his sheepskin-lined ''British 
Warm" and the badge of the Army Service Corps 
upon his cap. Cockerell, indignant at the manner 
in which his platoon had been hustled off the 
road, saluted stiffly, and muttered: ''Good-morn- 
ing, sir!'' 

"Good-morning!" said the Major. He was a 
stout man of nearly fifty, with twinkling blue 
eyes and a short-clipped mustache. Cockerell 
judged him to be one of the few remnants of the 
original British Army. 

"I stopped," explained the older man, "to 
apologise for the scandalous way that fellow drove 
over you. It was perfectly damnable; but you 
know what these converted taxi-drivers are! 
This swine forgot for the moment that he had an 
officer on board, and hogged it as usual. He goes 
under arrest as soon as we get back to billets." 

"Thank you very much, sir," said Master 
Cockerell, entirely thawed. "I'm afraid my chaps 
were lying all oyer the road; but they are pretty 
well down and out at present."- 



THE NON-COMBATANT 163 

''Where have you come from?'^ inquired the 
Major, turning a curious eye upon Cockerell^s 
prostrate followers. 

Cockerell explained . When he had finished, he 
added wistfully — 

'^ I suppose you have not got an odd tin or two 
of bully to give away, sir? My fellows are about — '' 

For answer, the Major took the Lieutenant 
by the arm and led him towards the lorry. 

''You have come,'' he announced, "to the very 
man you want. I am practically Mr. Harrod. 
In fact, I am a Corps Supply Officer. How would 
a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?" 

Cockerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases 
which crowded to his tongue, repHed that that 
was just what the doctor had ordered. 

"Where are you bound for?" continued the 
Major. 

St. Gregou-e." 

Of course. You were pulled out from there, 
were n't you? I am going to St. Gregoire myself 
as soon as I have finished my round. Home to 
bed, in fact. I have n't had any sleep worth writ- 
ing home about for four nights. It is no joke 
tearing about a country full of shell-holes, hunt- 
ing for people who have shifted their ration-dump 
seven times in four days. However, I suppose 
things will settle down again, now that you fel- 
lows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney 
Bean. Pretty fine work, too! Tell me, what is 
your strength, here and now?" 

"One officer," said Cockerell soberly, "and 
eighteen other ranks." 






164 ALL IN IT 

^^\11 that's left of your platoon?" 

Cockerell nodded. The stout Major began to 
beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his 
stick. 

'^Sergeant Smurthwaite!'' he shouted. 

There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of 
the lorry. Then a round and ruddy face rose like 
a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a ster- 
torous voice replied respectfully — 

''Let down this tailboard; load this officer's 
platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maco- 
nochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don't forget 
to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving 
when we get back tp billets." 

''Very good, sir." 

Ten minutes later the survivors of Number 
Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly 
incredulous, but at peace with all the world, re- 
clined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying 
lorry. Each man held an open tin of Mr. Macono- 
chie's admirable ration between his knees. Per- 
fect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum 
mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere. 

In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat 
the Major and Master Cockerell. The latter had 
just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was 
now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a 
cigarette. 

The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then 
he stripped off his British Warm coat — incident- 
ally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tu- 
nic the ribbons of both South African Medals and 



THE NON-COMBATANT 165 

the Distinguished Service Order — and threw it 
round Cockereirs shoulders. 

*'I'm sorry, boy!'' he said. ^'I never noticed. 
You are chilled to the bone. Button this round 
you." 

Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut 
short. 

*^ Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks 
after you've done your job." 

Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allow- 
ance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but 
comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted 
system. 

^'I see you have been wounded, sir," he ob- 
served, noting with a little surprise two gold 
stripes upon his host's left sleeve — the sleeve of 
a ^^non-combatant." 

"Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at 
Le Cateau. He was only a little fellow; but the 
second, which arrived at the Second Show at 
Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an 
old crock now. I was second-in-command of an 
Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am 
only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky 
to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' 
service. How old are you?" 

''Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired 
to feel as ashamed as he usually did at having to 
confess to the tenderness of his years. 

The Major nodded thoughtfully. 

''Yes," he said; "I judged that would be about 
the figure. My son would have been twenty this 
month, only — he was at Neuve Chapelle. He 



166 ALL IN IT 

was very like you in appearance — very. His 
mother would have been interested to meet you. 
You might as well take a nap for half an hour. I 
have two more calls to make, and we shan't get 
home till nearly seven. Lean on me, old man. 
I'll see you don't tumble overboard ..." 

So Lieutenant Cockerell, conqueror of the 
Kidney Bean, fell asleep, his head resting, with 
scandalous disregard for military etiquette, upon 
the shoulder of the stout Major. 



An hour or two later. Number Nine Platoon, 
distended with concentrated nourishment and 
painfully straightening its cramped limbs, de- 
canted itself from the lorry into a little cul-de- 
sac opening off the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau in 
St. Gr^goire. The name of the cul-de-sac was the 
Rue Gambetta. 

Their commander, awake and greatly refreshed, 
looked round him and realised, with a sudden 
sense of uneasiness, that he was in familiar sur- 
roundings. The lorry had stopped at the door of 
Number Five. 

^'1 don't suppose your Battalion will get back 
for some time," said the Major. ^'Tell your Ser- 
geant to put your men into the stable behind this 
house — there's plenty of straw there — and — " 

^' Their own billet is just round the corner, sir," 
replied Cockerell. ''They might as well go there, 
thank you." 

''Very good. But come in with me yourself, 
and doss here for a few hours. You can report to 



THE NON-COMBATANT 167 

your CO. later in the day, when he arrives. This 
is my pied-a-terre,^^ — rapping on the door. ''You 
won't find many billets like it. As you see, it 
stands in this little backwater, and is not in- 
cluded in any of the regular billeting areas of 
the town. The Town Major has allotted it to me 
permanently. Pretty decent of him, was n't it? 
And Madame Vinot is a dear. Here she is ! Bon- 
jour, Madame Vinot! Avez-vous un feu — er — 
inflamme pour moi dans la chamhre f " Evidently 
the Major's French was on a par with Cockerell's. 

But Madame understood him, bless her! 

^'Mais oui, M'sieur le Colonel r^ she exclaimed 
cheerfully — the rank of Major is not recognised 
by the French civihan population — and threw 
open the door of the sitting-room, with a glance 
of compassion upon the Major's mud-splashed 
companion, whom she failed to recognise. 

A bright fire was burning in the open stove. 

Immediately above, pinned to the mantelpiece 
and fluttering in the draught, hung Cockerell's 
manifesto upon the subject of non-combatants. 
He could recognise his own handwriting across 
the room. The Major saw it too. 

''Hallo, what's that hanging up, I wonder?'* 
he exclaimed. "A memorandum for me, I expect; 
probably from my old friend 'Dados.' ^ Let us 
get a little more light." 

He crossed to the window and drew up the 
blind. Cockerell moved too. When the Major 
turned roimd, his guest was standing by the stove, 
his face scarlet through its grime. 

^ D.A.D.O.S. Deputy Assistant Director of Ordnance Stores. 



168 ALL IN IT 

^'I^m awfully sorry, sir/' said Cockerell, ''but 
that notice — memoranduni — of yours has 
dropped into the fire." 

''If it came from Dados/' replied the Major, 
thank you very much!" 

"I can't tell you, sir," added Cockerell hum- 
bly, "what a fool I feel." 

But the apology referred to an entirely different 
matter. 



(( 



IX 

TUNING UP 
I 

It is just one year to-day since we ''came oot." 
A year plays havoc with the ''estabUshment'^ of 
a battahon in these days of civihsed warfare. Of 
the original band of stout-hearted but inexperi- 
enced Crusaders who crossed the Channel in the 
van of The First Hundred Thousand, in May, 
1915, — a regiment close on a thousand strong, 
with twenty-eight officers, — barely two hun- 
dred remain, and most of these are Headquarters 
or Transport men. Of officers there are five — 
Colonel Kemp, Major Wagstaffe, Master Cock- 
erell, Bobby Little, and Mr. Waddell, who, by 
the way, is now Captain Waddell, having suc- 
ceeded to the command of his old Company. 

Of the rest, our old Colonel is in Scotland, es- 
saying ambitious pedestrian and equestrian feats 
upon his new leg. Others have been drafted to 
the command of newer units, for every member of 
''K (1)'' is a Nestor now. Others are home, in 
various stages of convalescence. Others, alas ! will 
never go home again. But the gaps have all been 
filled up, and once more we are at full strength, 
comfortably conscious that whereas a year ago we 
were fighting to hold a line, and play for time, and 
find our feet, while the people at home behind us 
were making good, now we are fighting for one 



170 ALL IN IT 

thing and one thing only; and that is, to admin- 
ister the knock-out blow to Brother Boche. 

Our last casualty was Ayling, who left us under 
somewhat unusual circumstances. 

Towards the end of our last occupancy of 
trenches the local Olympus decided that what 
both sides required, in order to awaken them 
from their winter lethargy, or spring lassitude (or 
whatever it is that Olympus considers that we in 
the firing-line are suffering from for the moment), 
was a tonic. Accordingly orders were issued for 
a Flying Matinee, or trench raid. Each battalion 
in the Division was to submit a scheme, and the 
battalion whose scheme was adjudged the best 
was to be accorded the honour — so said the Prac- 
tical Joke Department — of carrying out the 
scheme in person. To the modified rapture of 
the Seventh Hairy Jocks their plan was awarded 
first prize. Headquarters, after a little excusable 
recrimination on the subject of unnecessary zeal 
and misguided ambition, set to work to arrange 
rehearsals of our highly unpopular production. 

Brother Boche has grown ^^wise'^ to Flying 
Matinees nowadays, and to score a real success 
you have to present him with something com- 
paratively novel and unexpected. However, our 
scheme had been carefully thought out; and, 
given sufficient preparation, and an adequate 
cast, there seemed no reason to doubt that the 
piece would have a highly successful run of one 
night. 

At one point in the enemy^s trenches opposite 
to us his barbed-wire defences had worn very 



TUNING UP 171 

thin, and steps were taken by means of system- 
atic machine-gun fire to prevent him repairing 
them. This spot was selected for the raid. A 
party of twenty-five was detailed. It was to be 
led by Angus M'Lachlan, and was to slip over the 
parapet on a given moonless night, crawl across 
No Man's Land to within striking distance of the 
German trench, and wait. At a given moment the 
signal for attack would be given, and the wire de- 
molished by a means which need not be specified 
here. Thereupon the raiding party were to dash 
forward and — to quote the Sergeant-Major — 
*'mix themselves up in it." 

Two elements are indispensable in a successful 
trench-raid — surprise and despatch. That is to 
say, you must deliver your raid when and where 
it is least expected, and then get home to bed be- 
fore your victims have had time to set the machin- 
ery of retaliation in motion. Steps were therefore 
taken, firstly, to divert the enemy's attention as 
far as possible from the true objective of the raid, 
by a sudden and furious bombardment of a sector 
of trenches three hundred yards away; and sec- 
ondly, to ensure as far as possible, that the raid, 
having commenced at 2 a.m., should conclude at 
2.12, sharp. 

In order to cover the retirement of the excur- 
sionists, Ayling was ordered to arrange for ma- 
chine-gun fire, which should sweep the enemy's 
parapet for some hundreds of yards upon either 
flank, and so encourage the enemy to keep his 
head down and mind his own business. 

The raid itself was a brilliant success. Dug- 



172 ALL IN IT 

outs were bombed, emplacements destroyed, and 
a respectable bag of captives brought over. But 
the element of surprise, upon which so much in- 
sistence was laid above, was visited upon both 
attackers and attacked. To the former the con- 
tribution came from that well-meaning but some- 
what addlepated warrior. Private Nigg, who 
formed one of the raiding party. 

Nigg's allotted task upon this occasion was to 
^^comb out" certain German dug-outs. (It may 
be mentioned that each man had a specific duty 
to perform, and a specific portion of the trench 
opposite to perform it in; for the raid had been 
rehearsed several times in a dummy trench be- 
hind the lines constructed exactly to scale from an 
aeroplane photograph.) For this purpose he was 
provided with bombs. Shortly before two o'clock 
in the morning the party, headed by Angus 
M'Lachlan, crawled over the parapet during a 
brief lull in the activities of the Verey lights, and 
crept steadily, on hands and knees, across No 
Man's Land. Fifty yards from the enemy's wire 
was a collection of shell-holes, relics of a burst of 
misdirected energy on the part of a six-inch bat- 
tery. Here the raiders disposed themselves, and 
waited for the signal. 

Now, it is an undoubted fact, that if you curl 
yourself up, with two or three preliminary twirls, 
after the fashion of a dog going to bed, in a per- 
fectly circular shell-hole, on a night as black as 
the inside of the dog in question, you are ex- 
tremely lil-cely to lose your sense of direction. 
This is what happened to Private Nigg. He and 



TUNING UP 173 

his infernal machines lay uneasily in their ap- 
pointed shell-hole for some ten minutes, sur- 
rounded by Verey lights which shot suddenly into 
the sky with a disconcerting plop, described a 
graceful parabola, burst into dazzling flame, and 
fluttered sizzling down. One or two of these fell 
quite near Nigg's party, and continued to burn 
upon the ground, but the raiders sank closer into 
their shell-holes, and no alarm resulted. Once or 
twice a machine-gun had a scolding fit, and bul- 
lets whispered overhead. But, on the whole, the 
night was quiet. 

Then suddenly, with a shattering roar, the 
feint-artillery bombardment broke forth. Simul- 
taneously word was passed along the raiding line 
to stand by. Next moment Angus MTachlan 
and his followers rose to their feet in the black 
darkness, scrambled out of their nests, and 
dashed forward to the accomplishment of their 
mission. 

When Nigg, who had paused a moment to col- 
lect his bombs, sprang out of his shell-hole, not a 
colleague was in sight. At least, Nigg could see 
no one. However, want of courage was not one of 
his faihngs. He bounded blindly forward by him- 
self. 

Try as he would he could not overtake the raid- 
ing party. However, this mattered little, for sud- 
denly a parapet loomed before him. In this same 
parapet, low down, Nigg beheld a black and gap- 
ing aperture — plainly a loophole of some kind. 

Without a moment's hesitation, Nigg hurled a 
Mills grenade straight through the loophole, and 



174 ALL IN IT 

then with one wild screech of ^^ Come away, boys! '' 
took a flying leap over the parapet — and landed 
in his own trench, in the arms of Corporal Muckle- 
wame. 

As already noted, it is difficult, when lying 
curled up in a circular shell-hole in the dark, to 
maintain a true sense of direction. 

So the first-fruits of the raid was Captain Ay- 
ling, of the Emma Gees. He had stationed himself 
in a concrete emplacement in the front line, the 
better to ^^ observe" the fire of his guns when it 
should be required. Unfortunately this was the 
destination selected by the misguided Niggs for 
his first (and as it proved, last) bomb. The raid- 
ers came safely back in due course, but by that 
time Ayling, liberally (but by a miracle not dan- 
gerously) ballasted with assorted scrap-iron, was 
on his way to the First Aid Post. 

II 

At the present moment we are right back at 
rest once more, and are being treated with a 
consideration, amounting almost to indulgence, 
which convinces us that we are being '' fattened 
up " — to employ the gruesome but expressive 
phraseology of the moment — for some particu- 
larly strenuous enterprise in the near future. 

Well, we are ready. It is nine months since 
Loos, and nearly six since we scraped the night- 
mare mud of Ypres from our boots, gum, thigh, for 
the last time. Our recent casualties have been 
light — our only serious effort of late has been the 
recapture of the Kidney Bean — the new drafts 



TUNING UP 175 

have settled down, and the young officers have 
been blooded. And above all, victory is in the air. 
We are going into our next fight with new-born 
confidence in the powers behind us. Loos was an 
experimental affair; and though to the humble in- 
struments with which the experiment was made 
the proceedings were less hilarious than we had 
anticipated, the results were enormously valu- 
able to a greatly expanded and entirely untried 
Staff. 

^'We shall do better this time," said Major 
Wagstaffe to Bobby Little, as they stood watch- 
ing the battalion assemble, in workmanlike fash- 
ion, for a route-march. ^' There are just one or two 
little points which had not occurred to us then. 
We have grasped them now, I think." 

^'Suchas?" 

''Well, you remember we all went into the Loos 
show without any very lucid idea as to how far we 
were to go, and where to knock off for the day, so 
to speak. The result was that the advance of each 
Division was regulated by the extent to which the 
German wire in front of it had been cut by our 
artillery. Ours was well and truly cut, so we pene- 
trated two or three miles. The people on our left 
never started at all. Lord knows, they tried hard 
enough. But how could any troops get through 
thirty feet of uncut wire, enfiladed by machine- 
guns? The result was that after forty-eight 
hours' fighting, our whole attacking front, in- 
stead of forming a nice straight line, had bagged 
out into a series of bays and peninsulas." 

''Our crowd wasn't even a peninsula," re- 



176 ALL IN IT 

marked Bobby with feeling. 'Tor an hour or so 
it was an island!" 

" I think you will find that in the next show 
we shall go forward, after intensive bombardment, 
quite a short distance; then consolidate; then 
wait till the whole line has come up to its ap- 
pointed objective; then bombard again; then go 
forward another piece; and so on. That will make 
it impossible for gaps to be created. It will also 
give our gunners a chance to cover our advance 
continuously. You remember at Loos they lost 
us for hours, and dare not fire for fear of hitting 
us. In fact, I expect that in battle plans of the 
future, instead of the artillery trying to conform 
to the movements of the infantry, matters will 
be reversed. The guns, after preliminary bom- 
bardment, will create a continuous Niagara of 
exploding shells upon a given line, marked in 
everybody's map, and timed for an exact period, 
just beyond the objective; and the infantry will 
stroll up into position a comfortable distance be- 
hind, reading the time-table, and dig themselves 
in. Then the barrage will lift on to the next line, 
and we shall toddle forward again. That's the 
new plan, Bobby I Close artillery cooperation, 
and a series of limited objectives!" 

''It sounds all right," agreed Bobby. "We 
shall want a good many guns, though, shan't we? " 

"We shall. But don't let that worry you. It is 
Bimply raining guns at the Base now. In fact, my 
grandmother in the War Office" — this mythical 
relative was frequently quoted by Major Wag- 
staffe, and certainly her information had several 



TUNING UP 177 

times proved surprisingly correct — 'Hells me 
that by the beginning of next year we shall have 
enough guns, of various calibres, to make a con- 
tinuous line, hub to hub, from one end of our 
front to the other/ ^ 

''Golly!'' observed Captain Little, with re- 
spectful relish. 

"That means," continued Wagstaffe, "that 
we shall be able to blow Brother Boche's immedi- 
ate place of business to bits, and at the same time 
take on his artillery with counter-battery work. 
Our shell-supply is practically unlimited now; 
so when the next push comes, we foot-sloggers 
ought to have a more gentlemanly time of it than 
we had at Loos and Wipers. And I '11 tell you an- 
other thing, Bobby. We shall have command of 
the air too." 

"That will be a pleasant change," remarked 
Bobby. "I'm getting tired of putting my fellows 
under arrest for rushing out of carefully concealed 
positions in order to gape up at Boche planes 
going over. Angus M'Lachlan is as bad as any of 
them. The fellow—" 

< "But you have not seen many Boche planes 
lately?" 

"No. Certainly not so many." 

"And the number will grow beautifully less. 
Our little friends in the R.F.C. are getting fairly 
numerous now, and their machines have been im- 
proved out of all knowledge. They are rapidly 
assuming the position of top dog. Moreover, the 
average Boche does not take kindly to flying. It 
is too — too individualistic a job for him. He 



178 ALL m IT 

likes to work in a bunch with other Boches, where 
he can keep step, and maintain dressing, and 
mark time if he gets confused. In the air one can- 
not mark time, and it worries Fritz to death. I 
think you will see, in the next unpleasantness, 
that we shall be able to maintain our aeroplane 
frontier somewhere over the enemy third line. 
That means that we shall make our own disposi- 
tions with a certain degree of privacy, and the 
Boche will not. Also, when our big guns get to 
work, they will not need to fire blindly, as in the 
days of our youth, but will be directed by one of 
our R.F.C. lads, humming about in his little bus 
above thfe target, perhaps fifteen miles from the 
gun. Hallo, there go the pipes! Tell your men 
to fall in.'' 

''The whole business," observed Bobby, as he 
struggled into his equipment, ''sounds so attrac- 
tive that I am beginning quite to look forward to 
the next show!" 

"Don't forget the Boche machine-guns, my 
lad," replied Wagstaffe. 

"One seldom gets the chance," grumbled 
Bobby. ''Is there no way of knocking them out? " 

"Well — " Wagstaffe looked intensely myste- 
rious — " of course one never knows, but — have 
you heard any rumours on the subject?" 

"I have. About—" 

"About the Hush! Hush! Brigade?" 

Bobby nodded. 

"Yes," he said. "Young Osborne, my best 
subaltern after Angus, disappeared last month to 
join it. Tell me, what is the — " 



TUNING UP 179 

"Hush! Hush!'' said Major Wagstaffe. ''Me- 
fiez vous ! Taisez vous ! and so on ! '' 
The battalion moved off. 

So much for the war-talk of veterans. Now let 
us listen to the novices. 

"Bogle," said Angus M'Lachlan to his hench- 
man, "I think we shall have to lighten this 
Wolseley valise of mine. With one thing and an- 
other it weighs far more than thirty-five pounds." 

"That's a fact, sirr," agreed Mr. Bogle. "It 
carries ower mony books in the heid of it." 

They shook out the contents of the valise upon 
the floor of Angus's bedroom — a loft over the 
kitchen in "A" Company's farm billet — and pro- 
ceeded to prune Angus's personal effects. There 
were boots, socks, shaving-tackle, maps, packets 
of chocolate, and books of every size, but chiefly 
of the ever-blessed sevenpenny type. 

"A lot of these things will have to go. Bogle," 
said Angus regretfully. "The colonel has warned 
officers about their kits, and it would never do to 
have mine turned back from the waggon at the 
last minute." 

Mr. Bogle pricked up his ears. "The waggon? 
Are we for off again, sirr?" he inquired. 

"Indeed I could not say," repUed the cautious 
Angus; "but it is well to be ready." 

"The boys was saying, sirr," observed Bogle 
tentatively, "that there was to be another grand 
battle soon." 

"It is more than likely," said Angus, with an 
air of profound wisdom. "Here we are in June, 



180 ALL IN IT 

and we must take the offensive, sooner or later, or 
summer will be over/' 

^^What kind o' a battle will it be this time, 
sirr?'' inquired Bogle respectfully. 

^'Oh, our artillery will pound the German 
trenches for a week or two, and then we shall go 
over the parapet and drive them back for miles," 
said Angus simply. 

''And what then, sirr?" 

''What then? We shall go on pushing them 
until another Division relieves us." 

Bogle nodded comprehendingly. He now had 
firmly fixed in his mind the essential details of 
the projected great offensive of 1916. He was 
not interested to go further in the matter. And 
it is this very faculty — philosophic trust, coupled 
with absolute lack of imagination — which makes 
the British soldier the most invincible person in 
the world. The Frenchman is inspired to glorious 
deeds by his great spirit and passionate love of his 
own sacred soil; the German fights as he thinks, 
like a machine. But the British Tommy wins 
through owing to his entire indifference to the 
pros and cons of the tactical situation. He settles 
down to war like any other trade, and, as in time 
of peace, he is chiefly concerned with his holidays 
and his creature comforts. A battle is a mere inci- 
dent between one set of billets and another. Con- 
sequently he does not allow the grim realities of 
war to obsess his mind when off duty. One might 
almost ascribe his success as a soldier to the fact 
that his domestic instincts are stronger than his 
miUtary instincts. 



TUNING UP 181 

Put the average Tommy into a trench under 
fire how does he comport himself? Does he begin 
by striking an attitude and hurling defiance at 
the foe? No, he begins by inquiring, in no uncer- 
tain voice, where his — dinner is? He then exam- 
ines his new quarters. Before him stands a para- 
pet, buttressed mayhap with hurdles or balks of 
timber, the whole being designed to preserve his 
life from hostile projectiles. How does he treat 
this bulwark? Unless closely watched, he will 
begin to chop it up for firewood. His next pro- 
ceeding is to construct for himself a place of shel- 
ter. This sounds a sensible proceeding, but here 
again it is a case of ^'safety second.'' A British 
Tommy regards himself as completely protected 
from the assaults of his enemies if he can lay a 
sheet of corrugated-iron roofing across his bit of 
trench and sit underneath it. At any rate it keeps 
the rain off, and that is all that his instincts 
demand of him. An ounce of comfort is worth 
a pound of security. 

He looks about him. The parapet here requires 
fresh sandbags; there the trench needs pumping 
out. Does he fill sandbags, or pump, of his own 
volition? Not at all. Unless remorselessly super- 
vised, he will devote the rest of the morning to 
inventing and chalking up a title for his new dug- 
out — *' Jock's Lodge," or ^^Burns' Cottage," 
or *' Cyclists' Rest" — supplemented by a cau- 
tionary notice, such as — No Admittance, This 
Means You. Thereafter, with shells whistling 
over his head, he will decorate the parapet in his 
inmiediate vicinity with picture postcards and 



182 ALL IN IT 

cigarette photographs. Then he leans back with 
a happy sigh. His work is done. His home from 
home is furnished. He is now at leisure to think 
about ^Hhey Gairmans" again. That may sound 
like an exaggeration; but ''Comfort First" is the 
motto of that lovable but imprudent grasshopper, 
Thomas Atkins, all the time. 

A sudden and pertinent thought occurred to 
Mr. Bogle, who possessed a Martha-like nature. 

''What way, sir, will a body get his dinner, if 
we are to be fighting for twa-three days on end?" 

"Every man," replied Angus, "will be issued, 
I expect, with two days' rations. But the Colonel 
tells me that during hard fighting a man does not 
feel the desire for food — or sleep either for that 
matter. Perhaps, during a lull, it may occur to 
him that he has not eaten since yesterday, and he 
may pull out a bit of biscuit or chocolate from his 
pocket, just to nibble. Or he may remember that 
he has had no sleep for twenty-four hours — so he 
just drops down and sleeps for ten minutes while 
there is time. But generally, matters of ordinary 
routine drop out of a man's thoughts altogether." 

"That's a queer-like thing, a body forgetting 
his dinner!" murmured Bogle. 

"Of course," continued Angus, warming to his 
theme like his own father in his pulpit, "if Nature 
is expelled with a pitchfork in this manner, for too 
long, tamen usque recurret.^^ 

"Is that a fact?" replied Bogle politely. He 
always adopted the line of least resistance when 
his master took to audible rumination. "Weel, 
I'll hae to be steppin', sir. I'll pit these twa 



TUNING UP 183 

blankets oot in the sun, in some place where the 
dooks frae the pond will no get dandering ower 
them. And if you 11 sorrt your books, I'll hand 
ower the yins ye dinna require to the Y.M.C.A. 
hut ayont the village.'' 

Bogle cherished a profound admiration for 
Lieutenant M'Lachlan both as a scholar and a 
strategist, and absorbed his deliverances with a 
care and attention which enabled him to misquote 
the same quite fluently to his own associates. 
That very evening he set forth the coming plan 
of campaign, as elucidated to him by his master, 
to a mixed assemblage at the Estaminet au Clef 
des Champs. Some of the party were duly im- 
pressed; but Mr. Spike Johnson, a resident in 
peaceful times of Stratford-atte-Bow, the recog- 
nised humourist of the Sappers' Field Company 
attached to the Brigade, was pleased to be face- 
tious. 

^'It won't be no good you Jocks goin' over no 
parapet to attack no 'Uns," he said, ^' after what 
'appened last week!" 

This dark saying had the effect of rousing every 
Scottish soldier in the estaminet to a state of 
bristling attention. 

''And what was it," inquired Private Cosh with 
heat, ''that happened last week?" 

"Why," replied Mr. Johnson, who had been 
compounding this jest for some days, and now 
saw his opportunity to deliver it with effect at 
short range, "your trenches got raided last 
Wednesday, when you was in 'em. By the 
Brandyburgers, I think it was." 



184 ALL IN IT 

The entire symposium stared at the jester with 
undisguised amazement. 

^'Our — trenches/' proclaimed Private Tosh 
with forced calm, ^^were never raided by no — 
Brandyburrrgerrs! Was they, Jimmie?" 

Mr. Cosh corroborated, with three adjectives 
which Mr. Tosh had not thought of. 

Spike Johnson merely smiled, with the easy 
assm-ance of a man who has the ace up his sleeve. 

^'Oh yes, they was!" he reiterated. 

*^They werre not!'' shouted half a dozen voices. 

The next stage of the discussion requires no 
discription. It termuiated, at the urgent request 
of Madame from behind the bar, and with the 
assistance of the Military Police, in the street 
outside. 

^'And now. Spike Johnson," inquired Private 
Cosh, breathing heavily but much refreshed, 
''can you tell me what way Gairmans could get 
intil the trenches of a guid Scots regiment withoot 
bein' seenf 

''I can," replied Mr. Johnson with relish, ''and 
I will. They got in all right, but you did n't see 
them, because they was disguised." 

Cosh and Tosh snorted disdainfully, and Priv- 
ate Nigg, who was present with his friend Bun- 
cle, inquired — 

""Wliat way was they disguised?" 

Like lightning came the answer — 

"As a joke! Oh, you Jocks." 

Cosh and Tosh (who had already been warned 
by the Police sergeant) merely glared and gurgled 
impotently. Private Nigg, who, as already men- 



TUNING UP 185 

tioned, was slightly wanting in quickness of per- 
ception, was led away by the faithful Buncle, to 
have the outrage explained to him at leisure. It 
was Private Bogle who intervened, and brought 
the intellectual Gohath crashing to the ground. 

^^Man, Johnson, '^ he remarked, and shook his 
head mournfully, ^'youse ought to be varra care- 
ful aboot sayin^ things like that to the likes of us. 
^Deedaye!^^ 

^^What for, ole son?" inquired the jester indul- 
gently. 

^^Naithing," replied Bogle with artistic reti- 
cence. 

'^ Come along — aht with it ! '^ insisted Johnson. 
"Cough it up, duckie!" 

"Man, man," cried Bogle with passionate ear- 
nestness, "dinna gang ower far!" 

"What the 'ell /or f" inquired Johnson, im- 
pressed despite himself. 

"What for?" Bogle's voice dropped to a 
ghostly whisper. "Has it ever occurred to you, 
my mannie, what would happen tae the English 
— if Scotland was tae make a separate peace?" 

And Mr. Bogle retired, not before it was time, 
within the sheltering portals of the estaminet, 
where not less than seven] inarticulate but ap- 
preciative fellow-countrymen offered him refresh- 
ment. 



X 

FULL CHORUS 
I 

An Observation Post — or ''0 Pip," in the mys- 
terious patois of the Buzzers — is not exactly the 
spot that one would select either for spaciousness 
or accessibihty. It may be situated up a chimney 
or up a tree, or down a tunnel bored through a 
hill. But it certainly enables you to see something 
of your enemy; and that, in modern warfare, is a 
very rare and valuable privilege. 

Of late the scene-painter's art — technically 
known as camouflage — has raised the conceal- 
ment of batteries and their observation posts to 
the realm of the uncanny. According to Major 
Wagstaffe, you can now disguise anybody as any- 
thing. For instance, you can make up a battery 
of six-inch guns to look like a flock of sheep, and 
herd them into action browsing. Or you can 
despatch a scouting party across No Man's Land 
dressed up as pillar-boxes, so that the deluded 
Hun, instead of opening fire with a machine-gun, 
will merely post letters in them — valuable let- 
ters, containing military secrets. Lastly, and more 
important still, you can disguise yourself to look 
like nothing at all, and in these days of intensified 
artillery fire it is very seldom that nothing at all 
is hit. 

The particular O Pip with which we are con- 



FULL CHORUS 187 

cerned at present, however, is a German post — 
or was a fortnight ago, before the opening of the 
Battle of the Somme. 

For nearly two years the British Armies on the 
Western Front have been playing for time. They 
have been sticking their toes in and holding their 
ground, with numerically inferior forces and in- 
adequate artillery support, against a nation in 
arms which has set out, with forty years of prepa- 
ration at its back, to sweep the earth. We have 
held them, and now der Tag has come for us. The 
deal has passed into our hand at last. A fortnight 
ago, ready for the first time to undertake the 
offensive on a grand and prolonged scale, — Loos 
was a mere reconnaissance compared with this, 
— the New British Army went over the parapet 
shoulder to shoulder with the most heroic Army 
in the world — the Army of France — and at- 
tacked over a sixteen-mile front in the Valley of 
the Somme. 

It was a critical day for the Allies: certainly it 
was a most critical day in the history of the Brit- 
ish Army. For on that day an answer had to be 
given to a very big question indeed. Hitherto 
we had been fighting on the defensive — un- 
ready, uphill, against odds. It would have been 
no particular discredit to us had we failed to hold 
our line. But we had held it, and more. Now, 
at last, we were ready — as ready as we were ever 
likely to be. We had the men, the guns, and the 
munitions. We were in a position to engage the 
enemy on equal, and more than equal, terms. 
And the question that the British Empire had to 



188 ALL IN IT 

answer in that day, the First of July 1916, was 
this: ^^Are these new amateur armies of ours, 
raised, trained, and equipped in less than two 
years, with nothing in the way of military tradi- 
tion to uphold them — nothing but the steady 
courage of their race: are they a match for, and 
more than a match for, that grim machine-made, 
iron-bound host that lies waiting for them along 
that line of Picardy hills? Because if they are notj 
we cannot win this war. We can only make a 
stalemate of it.'^ 

We, looking back now over a space of twelve 
months, know how our boys answered that ques- 
tion. In the greatest and longest battle that the 
world had yet seen, that Army of city clerks, 
Midland farm-lads, Lancashire mill-hands, Scot- 
tish miners, and Irish comer-boys, side by side 
with their great-hearted brethren from Overseas, 
stormed positions which had been held impreg- 
nable for two years, captured seventy thousand 
prisoners, reclaimed several hundred square miles 
of the sacred soil of France, and smashed once and 
for all the German-fostered fable of the invinci- 
bility of the German Army. It was good to have 
lived and suffered during those early and lean 
years, if only to be present at their fulfilment. 

But at this moment the battle was only begin- 
ning, and the bulk of their astounding achieve- 
ment was still to come. Nevertheless, in the 
cautious and modest estimate of their Comman- 
der-in-Chief, they had already done something. 

After ten days and nights of continuous fighting , 
said the first official report, our troops have com- 



FULL CHORUS 189 

pleted the methodical capture of the whole of the 
enemy' s first system of defence on a front of fourteen 
thousand yards. This system of defence consisted of 
numerous and continuous lines of fire trenches, 
extending to depths of from two thousand to four 
thousand yards, and included five strongly fortified 
villages, numerous heavily entrenched woods, and a 
large number of immensely strong redoubts. The 
capture of each of these trenches represented an 
operation of some importance, and the whole of them 
are now in our hands. 

Quite so. One feels, somehow, that Berlin 
would have got more out of such a theme. 

Now let us get back to our O Pip. If you peep 
over the shoulder of Captain Leslie, the gunner 
observing officer, as he directs the fire of his 
battery, situated some thousands of yards in 
rear, through the medium of map, field-glass, and 
telephone, you will obtain an excellent view of 
to-morrow^s field of battle. Present in the O Pip 
are Colonel Kemp, Wagstaffe, Bobby Little, and 
Angus M'Lachlan. The latter had been included 
in the party because, to quote his Commanding 
Officer, '^he would have burst into tears if he had 
been left out." 

Overhead roared British shells of every kind 
and degree of unpleasantness, for the ground 
in front was being ^^ prepared'' for the coming 
assault. The undulating landscape, running up 
to a low ridge on the skyline four miles away, was 
spouting smoke in all directions — sometimes 
black, sometimes green, and sometimes, where 



190 ALL IN IT 

bursting shell and brick-dust intermingled, blood- 
red. Beyond the ridge all-conquering British 
aeroplanes occupied the firmament, observing 
for ^' mother ^^ and ''granny" and signalling en- 
couragement or reproof to these ponderous but 
sprightly relatives as their shells hit or missed the 
target. 

''Yes, sir," replied Leslie to Colonel Kemp's 
question, "that is Longueval, on the slope oppo- 
site, with the road running through on the way to 
Flers, over the skyline. That is Delville Wood on 
its right. As you see, the guns are concentrating 
on both places. That is Waterlot Farm, on this 
side of the wood — a sugar refinery. Regular nest 
of machine-guns there, I'm told." 

"No doubt we shall be able to confirm the 
rumour to-morrow," said Colonel Kemp drily. 
"That is Bernafay Wood on our right, I suppose? " 
• "Yes, sir. We hold the whole of that. The 
pear-shaped wood out beyond it — it looks as if 
it were joined on, but the two are quite separate 
really — is Trones Wood. It has changed hands 
several times. Just at present I don't think we 
hold more than the near end. Further away, half- 
right, you can see Guillemont." 

"In that case," remarked WagstafTe, "our 
right flank would appear to be strongly supported 
by the enemy." 

"Yes. We are in a sort of right-angled salient 
here. We have the enemy on our front and our 
right. In fact, we form the extreme right of the 
attacking front. Our left is perfectly secure, as 
we now hold Mametz Wood and Contalmaison. 



FULL CHORUS 191 

There they are." He waved his glass to the north- 
west. ''When the attack takes place, I under- 
stand that our Division will go straight ahead, for 
Longueval and Delville Wood, while the next 
Division makes a lateral thrust out to the right, 
to push the Boche out of Trones Wood and cover 
our flank." 

''I believe that is so," said the Colonel. 
''Bobby, take a good look at the approaches to 
Longueval. That is the scene of to-morrow's 
constitutional." 

Bobby and Angus obediently scanned the vil- 
lage through their glasses. Probably they did not 
learn much. One bombarded French village is 
very like another bombarded French village. A 
cowering assemblage of battered little houses; 
a pitiful little main street, with its eviscerated 
shops and estaminets; sl shattered church-spire. 
Beyond that, an enclosure of splintered stumps 
that was once an orchard. Below all, cellars, rein- 
forced with props and sand-bags, and filled with 
machine-guns. Voild tout! 

Presently the Gunner Captain passed word 
down to the telephone operator to order the bat- 
tery to cease fire. 

''Knocking off?" inquired Wagstaffe. 

"For the present, yes. We are only registering 
this morning. Not all our batteries are going at 
once, either. We don't want Brother Boche to 
know our strength until we tune up for the final 
chorus. We calculate that — " 

"There is a comfortable sense of decency and 
order about the way we fight nowadays," said 



192 ALL IN IT 

Colonel Kemp. ''It is like working out a prob- 
lem in electrical resistance by a nice convenient 
algebraical formula. Very different from the state 
of things last year, when we stuck it out by 
employing rule of thumb and hanging on by our 
eyebrows.'' 

''The only problem we can't quite formulate is 
the machine-gun," said Leslie. The Boche's dug- 
outs here are thirty feet deep. When crumped by 
our artillery he withdraws his infantry and leaves 
his machine-gunners behind, safe underground. 
Then, when our guns lift and the attack comes 
over, his machine-gunners appear on the surface, 
hoist their guns after them with a sort of tackle 
arrangement, and get to work on a prearranged 
band of fire. The infantry can't do them in until 
No Man's Land is crossed, and — well, they don't 
all get across, that's all! However, I have heard 
rumours — " 

"So have we all," said Colonel Kemp. 

"I forgot to tell you. Colonel," interposed 
Wagstaffe, "that I met young Osborne at Divi- 
sional Headquarters last night. You remember, 
he left us some time ago to join the Hush I Hush! 
Brigade." 

"I remember," said the Colonel. 

By this time the party, including the Gun- 
ner Captain, were filing along a communication 
trench, lately the property of some German gen- 
tlemen, on their way back to headquarters. 

"Did he tell you anything, Wagstaffe?" con- 
tinued Colonel Kemp. 

"Not much. Apparently the time of the H.H.B. 



FULL CHORUS 19S 

is not yet. But he made an appointment with me 
for this evening — in the gloaming, so to speak. 
He is sending a car. If all he says is true, the 
Boche Emma Gee is booked for an eye-opener in 
a few weeks' time." 

II 

That evening a select party of sight-seers were 
driven to a secluded spot behind the battle line. 
Here they were met by Master Osborne, obvi- 
ously inflated with some important matter. 

^^I've got leave from my CO. to show you the 
sights, sir,'' he announced to Colonel Kemp. ^^If 
you will all stand here and watch that wood on 
the opposite side of this clearing, you may see 
something. We don't show ourselves much except 
in late evening, so this is our parade hour." 

The little group took up its appointed stand 
and waited in the gathering :dusk. In the east 
the sky was already twinkling with intermittent 
Verey lights. All around the British guns were 
thundering forth their hymns of hate — full- 
throated now, for the hour for the next great 
assault was approaching. 

Wagstaffe's thoughts went back to a certain 
soft September night last year, when he and 
Blaikie had stood on the eastern outskirts of 
Bethune listening to a similar overture — the 
prelude to the Battle of Loos. But this overture 
was ten times more awful, and, from a material 
British point of view, ten times more inspiring. 
It would have thrilled old Blaikie's fighting 
spirit, thought Wagstaffe. But Loos had taken 



194 ALL IN IT 

his friend from him, and he, Wagstaffe, only was 
left. What did fate hold in store for him to-mor- 
row? he wondered. And Bobby? They had both 
escaped marvellously so far. Well, better men 
had gone before them. Perhaps — 

Fingers of steel bit into his biceps muscle, and 
the excited whinny of Angus M^Lachlan besought 
him to look ! 

Down in the forest something stirred. But it was 
not the note of a bird, as the song would have us 
believe. From the depths of the wood opposite 
came a crackling, crunching sound, as of some 
prehistoric beast forcing its way through tropical 
undergrowth. And then, suddenly, out from the 
thinning edge there loomed a monster — a mon- 
strosity. It did not glide, it did not walk. It 
wallowed. It lurched, with now and then a labo- 
rious heave of its shoulders. It fumbled its way 
over a low bank matted with scrub. It crossed a 
ditch, by the simple expedient of rolling the ditch 
out flat, and waddled forward. In its path stood 
a young tree. The monster arrived at the tree 
and laid its chin lovingly against the stem. The 
tree leaned back, crackled, and assumed a hori- 
zontal position. In the middle of the clearing, 
twenty yards farther on, gaped an enormous shell- 
crater, a present from the Kaiser. Into this the 
creature plunged blindly, to emerge, panting and 
puffing, on the farther side. Then it stopped. A 
magic opening appeared in its stomach, from 
which emerged, grinning, a British subaltern and 
his grimy associates. 

And that was our friends' first encounter with 



FULL CHORUS 195 

a '^Tank." The secret — unlike most secrets in 
this publicity-ridden war — had been faithfully 
kept; so far the Hush! Hush! Brigade had been 
little more than a legend even to the men high up. 
Certainly the omniscient Hun received the sur- 
prise of his life when, in the early mist of a Sep- 
tember morning some weeks later, a line of these 
selfsame tanks burst for the first time upon his 
incredulous vision, waddling grotesquely up the 
hill to the ridge which had defied the British in- 
fantry so long and so bloodily — there to squat 
complacently down on the top of the enemy's 
machine-guns, or spout destruction from her own 
up and down beautiful trenches which had never 
been intended for capture. In fact. Brother Boche 
was quite plaintive about the matter. He de- 
scribed the employment of such engines as wicked 
and brutal, and opposed to the recognised usages 
of warfare. When one of these low-comedy ve- 
hicles (named the Creme-de-Menthe) ambled down 
the main street of the hitherto impregnable vil- 
lage of Flers, with hysterical British Tommies 
slapping her on the back, he appealed to the civ- 
ilised world to step in and forbid the combination 
of vulgarism and barbarity. 

^^Let us at least fight like gentlemen,'' said the 
Hun, with simple dignity. '^Let us stick to legiti- 
mate military devices — the murder of women and 
children, and the emission of chlorine gas. But 
Tanks — no ! One must draw the line somewhere ! ' ' 

But the ill-bred Creme-de-Menthe took no no- 
tice. None whatever. She simply went waddling 
on — towards Berlin. 



196 ALL IN IT 

''An experiment, of course," commented Col- 
onel Kemp, as they returned to headquarters — 
''a fantastic experiment. But I wish they were 
ready now. I would give something to see one of 
them leading the way into action to-morrow. It 
might mean saving the lives of a good many of 
Kiy boys.'' 



XI 

THE LAST SOLO 

It was dawn on Saturday morning, and the sec- 
ond phase of the Battle of the Somme was more 
than twenty-four hours old. The programme had 
opened with a night attack, always the most dif- 
ficult and uncertain of enterprises, especially for 
soldiers who were civilians less than two years 
ago. But no undertaking is too audacious for men 
in whose veins the wine of success is beginning to 
throb. And this undertaking, this hazardous gam- 
ble, had succeeded all along the line. During the 
past day and night, more than three miles of the 
German second system of defences, from Bazen- 
tin le Petit to the edge of Delville Wood, had re- 
ceived their new tenants ; and already long streams 
of not altogether reluctant Hun prisoners were 
being escorted to the rear by perspiring but cheer- 
ful gentlemen with fixed bayonets. 

Meanwhile — in case such of the late occupants 
of the line as were still at large should take a fancy 
to revisit their previous haunts, working-parties 
of infantry, pioneers, and sappers were toiling at 
full pressure to reverse the parapets, run out 
barbed wire, and bestow machine-guns in such a 
manner as to produce a continuous lattice-work 
of fire along the front of the captured position. 

All through the night the work had continued. 
As a result, positions were now tolerably secure, 



198 ALL IN IT 

the intrepid '^ Buzzers^' had included the newly- 
grafted territory in the nervous system of the 
British Expeditionary Force, and Battalion Head- 
quarters and Supply Depots had moved up to 
their new positions. 

To Colonel Kemp and his Adjutant Cockerell, 
ensconced in a dug-out thirty feet deep, furnished 
with a real bed, electric-light fittings, and orna- 
ments obviously made in Germany, entered Ma- 
jor Wagstaffe, encrusted with mud, but as imper- 
turbable as ever. He saluted. 

^'Good-morning, sir. You seem to have struck 
a cushie little home time." 

' ' Yes. The Boche officer harbours no false mod- 
esty about acknowledging his desire for creature 
comforts. That is where he scores off people like 
you and me, who pretend we like sleeping in mud. 
Have you been round the advanced positions?" 

''Yes. There is some pretty hard fighting going 
on in the village itself — the Boche still holds the 
north-west corner — and in the wood on the right. 
'A' Company are holding a line of broken-down 
cottages on our right front, but they can't make 
any further move until they get more bombs. The 
Boche is occupying various buildings opposite, 
but in no great strength at present. However, he 
seems to have plenty of machine-guns." 

"I have sent up more bombs," said the Col- 
onel. " What about ' B ' Company? " 

*"B' have reached their objective, and consoli- 
dated. 'C and 'D' are lying close up, ready to 
go forward in support when required. I think 
'A' could do with a little assistance." 



THE LAST SOLO 199 

"I don't want to send up ^C and 'D V' replied 
the Colonel, '^ until the Divisional Reserve ar- 
rives. The Brigade has just telephoned through 
that reinforcements are on the way. When they 
get here, we can afford to stuff in the whole bat- 
talion. Are 'A' Company capable of handling the 
situation at present?'' 

^^Yes, I think so. Little is directing his pla- 
toons from a convenient cellar. He was in touch 
with them all when I left. But it is possible that 
the Boche may make a rush when it grows a bit 
lighter. At present he is too demoralised to at- 
tempt anything beyond intermittent machine- 
gun fire." 

Colonel Kemp turned to Cockerell. 

^^Get Captain Little on the telephone/' he 
said, ^^and tell him, if the enemy displays any 
disposition to counter-attack, to let me know at 
once." Then he turned to Wagstaffe, and asked 
the question which always lurks furtively on the 
tongue of a commanding officer. 

' ' Many — casualties? " 

^^'A' Company have caught it rather badly 
crossing the open. 'B' got off lightly. Glen is 
commanding them now : Waddell was killed lead- 
ing his men in the rush to the final objective." 

Colonel Kemp sighed. 

''Another good boy gone — veteran, rather. I 
must write to his wife. Fairly newly married, 
I fancy?" 

'Tour months," said Wagstaffe briefly. 

^'What was his Christian name, do you know?" 

"Walter, I think, sir," said Cockerell. 



200 ALL IN IT 

Colonel Kemp, amid the stress of battle, found 
time to enter a note in his pocket-diary to that 
effect. 

Meanwhile, up in the line, 'A^ Company were 
holding on grimly to what are usually described 
as ^'certain advanced elements" of the village. 

Village fighting is a confused and untidy busi- 
ness, but it possesses certain redeeming features. 
The combatants are usually so inextricably mixed 
up that the artillery are compelled to refrain from 
participation. That comes later, when you have 
cleared the village of the enemy, and his guns are 
preparing the ground for the inevitable counter- 
attack. 

So far 'A ' Company had done nobly. From the 
moment when they had lined up before Montau- 
ban in the gross darkness preceding yesterday^s 
dawn until the moment when Bobby Little led 
them in one victorious rush into the outskirts of 
the village, they had never encountered a set- 
back. By sunset they had penetrated some way 
farther; now creeping stealthily forward under the 
shelter of a broken wall to hurl bombs into the 
windows of an occupied cottage; now climb- 
ing precariously to some conmaanding position in 
order to open fire with a Lewis gun; now mak- 
ing a sudden dash across an open space. Such 
work offered peculiar opportunities to small and 
well-handled parties — opportunities of which 
Bobby Little's veterans availed themselves right 
readily. 

Angus M'Lachlan, for instance, accompanied 



THE LAST SOLO 201 

by a small following of seasoned experts, had 
twice rounded up parties of the enemy in cellars, 
and had despatched the same back to Headquar- 
ters with his compliments and a promise of more. 
Mucklewame and four men had bombed their 
way along a communication trench leading to one 
of the side streets of the village — a likely avenue 
for a counter-attack — and having reached the 
end of the trench, had built up a sandbag barri- 
cade, and had held the same against the assaults 
of hostile bombers until a Vickers machine-gun 
had arrived in charge of an energetic subaltern of 
that youthful but thriving organisation, the Sui- 
cide Club, or Machine-Gun Corps, and closed the 
street to further Teutonic traffic. 

During the night there had been periods of 
quiescence, devoted to consolidation, and here 
and there to snatches of uneasy slumber. Angus 
M'Lachlan, fairly in his element, had trailed his 
enormous length in and out of the back-yards and 
brick-heaps of the village, visiting every point 
in his irregular line, testing defences; bestowing 
praise; and ensiu-ing that every man had his share 
of food and rest. Unutterably grimy but inex- 
pressibly cheerful, he reported progress to Major 
Wagstaffe when that nocturnal rambler visited 
him in the small hours. 

''Well, Angus, how goes it?'' inquired Wag- 
staffe. 

''We have won the match, sir,'' replied Angus 
with simple seriousness. "We are just playing the 
bye now!'' 

And with that he crawled away, with the 



202 ALL IN IT 

unnecessary stealth of a small boy playing rob- 
bers, to encourage his dour paladins to further 
efforts. 

^^We shall probably be relieved this evening/' 
he explained to them, '^and we must make every- 
thing secure. It would never do to leave our new 
positions untenable by other troops. They might 
not be so reliable'^ — with a paternal smile — 
*'as you! Now, our right flank is not safe yet. 
We can improve the position very much if we 
can secure that estaminet, standing up like an 
island among those ruined houses on our right 
front. You see the sign, Aux Boris Fermiers, over 
the door. The trouble is that a German machine- 
gun is sweeping the intervening space — and we 
cannot see the gun! There it goes again. See the 
brick-dust fly! Keep down! They are firing 
mainly across our front, but a stray bullet may 
come this way.'' 

The platoon crouched low behind their impro- 
vised rampart of brick rubble, while machine-gun 
bullets swept low, with misleading claquement, 
along the space in front of them, from some hid- 
den position on their right. Presently the firing 
stopped. Brother Boche was merely ^ loosing off 
a belt," as a precautionary measure, at commend- 
ably regular intervals. 

''I cannot locate that gun," said Angus impa- 
tiently. ''Can you, Corporal M'Snape?" 

''It is not in the estamint itself, sirr," replied 
M'Snape. ("Estamint" is as near as our rank 
and file ever get to estaminet.) "It seems to be 
mounted some place higher up the street. I doubt 



THE LAST SOLO 203 

they cannot see us themselves — only the ground 
in front of us.'' 

^^If we could reach the estaminet itself," said 
Angus thoughtfully, ^'we could get a more ex- 
tended view. Sergeant Mucklewame, select ten 
men, including three bombers, and follow me. I 
am going to find a jumping-off place. The Lewis 
gun too.'' 

Presently the little party were crouching round 
their officer in a sheltered position on the right 
of the line — which for the moment appeared to 
be ''in the air." Except for the intermittent 
streams of machine-gun fire, and an occasional 
shrapnel-burst overhead, all was quiet. The ene- 
my's counter-attack was not yet ready. 

''Now listen carefully," said Angus, who had 
just finished scribbling a despatch. "First of all, 
you. Bogle, take this message to the telephone, 
and get it sent to Company Headquarters. Now 
you others. We will wait till that machine-gun 
has fired another belt. Then, the moment it has 
finished, while they are getting out the next belt, 
I will dash across to the estaminet over there. 
M'Snape, you will come with me, but no one else 
— yet. If the estaminet seems capable of being 
held, I will signal to you, Sergeant Mucklewame, 
and you will send your party across, in drib- 
lets, not forgetting the Lewis gun. By that time 
I may have located the German machine-gun, 
so we should be able to knock it out with the 
Lewis." 

Further speech was cut short by a punctual 
fantasia from the gun in question. Angus and 



204 ALL IN IT 

M'Snape crouched behind the shattered wall, 
awaiting their chance. The firing ceased. 

^'NowT' whispered Angus. 

Next moment officer and corporal were flying 
across the open, and before the mechanical Boche 
gunner could jerk the new belt into position, both 
had found sanctuary within the open doorway of 
the half-ruined estaminet. 

Nay, more than both; for as the panting pair 
flung themselves into shelter, a third figure, short 
and stout, in an ill-fitting kilt, tumbled heavily 
through the doorway after them. Simultaneously 
a stream of machine-gun bullets went storming 
past. 

''Just in time!" observed Angus, well pleased. 
*' Bogle, what are you doing here?" 

''I was given tae unnerstand, sirr," replied 
Mr. Bogle calmly, ''when I jined the regiment, 
that in action an officer's servant stands by his 
officer." 

"That is true," conceded Angus; "but you 
had no right to follow me against orders. Did 
you not hear me say that no one but Corporal 
M'Snape was to come?" 

"No, sirr. I doubt I was away at the 'phone." 

"Well, now you are here, wait inside this door- 
way, where you can see Sergeant Mucklewame's 
party, and look out for signals. M'Snape, let us 
find that machine-gun." 

The pair made their way to the hitherto 
blind side of the building, and cautiously peeped 
through a much-perforated shutter in the hving- 
room. 



THE LAST SOLO 205 

"Do you see it, sirr?'* inquired M'Snape 
eagerly. 

Angus chuckled. 

^'See it? Fine! It is right in the open, in the 
middle of the street. Look!^' 

He reUnquished his peep-hole. The German 
machine-gun was mounted in the street itself, 
behind an improvised barrier of bricks and sand- 
bags. It was less than a hundred yards away, 
sited in a position which, though screened from 
the view of Angus's platoon farther down, en- 
abled it to sweep all the ground in front of the 
position. This it was now doing with great inten- 
sity, for the brief public appearance of Angus and 
M'Snape had effectually converted intermittent 
into continuous fire. 

"We must get the Lewis gun over at once,'' 
muttered Angus. "It can knock that breastwork 
to pieces." 

He crossed the house again, to see if any of 
Mucklewame's men had arrived. 

They had not. The man with the Lewis gun 
was lying dead halfway across the street, with his 
precious weapon on the ground beside him. Two 
other men, both wounded, were crawling back 
whence they came, taking what cover they could 
from the storm of bullets which whizzed a few 
inches over their flinching bodies. 

Angus hastily semaphored to Mucklewame to 
hold his men in check for the present. Then he 
returned to the other side of the house. 

"How many men are serving that gun?" he 
said to M'Snape. "Can you see?" 






206 ALL IN IT 

'^Only two, sirr, I think. I cannot see them, 
but that wee breastwork will not cover more than 
a couple of men." 

''Mphm," observed Angus thoughtfully. ''I 
expect they have been left behind to hold on. 
Have you a bomb about you?" 

The admirable M'Snape produced from his 
pocket a Mills grenade, and handed it to his 
superior. 

Just the one, sirr," he said. 
Go you," commanded Angus, his voice rising 
to a more than usually Highland inflection, ^^and 
semaphore to Mucklewame that when he hears 
the explosion of this^^ — he pulled out the safety- 
pin of the grenade and gripped the grenade itself 
in his enormous paw — '' followed, probably, by 
the temporary cessation of the machine-gun, he 
is to bring his men over here in a bunch, as hard 
as they can pelt. Put it as briefly as you can, but 
make sure he understands. He has a good signal- 
ler with him. Send Bogle to report when you 
have finished. Now repeat what I have said to 
you. . . . That's right. Carry on!" 

M'Snape was gone. Angus, left alone, pensively 
restored the safety-pin to the grenade, and laid 
the grenade upon the ground beside him. Then 
he proceeded to write a brief letter in his field 
message-book. This he placed in an envelope 
which he took from his breast pocket. The enve- 
lope was already addressed — to the Reverend 
Neil M^Lachlan, The Manse, in a very remote 
Highland village. (Angus had no mother.) He 
closed the envelope, initialled it, and buttoned 



THE LAST SOLO 207 

it up in his breast pocket again. After that he 
took up his grenade and proceeded to make a 
further examination of the premises. Presently 
he found what he wanted; and by the time Bogle 
arrived to announce that Sergeant Mucklewame 
had signalled ''message understood/' his arrange- 
ments were complete. 

''Stay by this small hole in the wall, Bogle/' he 
said, "and the moment the Lewis gun arrives tell 
them to mount it here and open fire on the enemy 
gun." 

He left the room, leaving Bogle alone, to listen 
to the melancholy rustle of peeling wall-paper 
within and the steady crackling of bullets with- 
out. But when, peering through the improvised 
loop-hole, he next caught sight of his officer, 
Angus had emerged from the house by the cellar 
window, and was creeping with infinite caution 
behind the shelter of what had once been the wall 
of the estaminefs back-yard (but was now an un- 
even bank of bricks, averaging two feet high), 
in the direction of the German machine-gun. The 
gun, oblivious of the danger now threatening its 
right front, continued to fire steadily and hope- 
fully down the street. 

Slowly, painfully, Angus crawled on, until he 
found himself within the right angle formed by 
the corner of the yard. He could go no further 
without being seen. Between him and the Ger- 
man gun lay the cobbled surface of the street, 
offering no cover whatsoever except one mighty 
shell-crater, situated midway between Angus 
and the gun, and full to the brim with rainwater. 



306 ALL IN IT 

A single peep over the wall gave him his bear- 
ings. The gun was too far away to be reached by 
a grenade, even when thrown by Angus M'Lach- 
lan. Still, it would create a diversion. It was a 
time bomb. He would — 

He stretched out his long arm to its full extent 
behind him, gave one mighty overarm sweep, and 
with all the crackling strength of his mighty sin- 
ews, hurled the grenade. 

It fell into the exact centre of the flooded shell- 
crater. 

Angus said something under his breath which 
would have shocked a disciple of Kultur. Fortu- 
nately the two German gunners did not hear him. 
But they observed the splash fifty yards away, 
and it relieved them from ennui, for they were 
growing tired of firing at nothing. They had not 
seen the grenade thrown, and were a little puz- 
zled as to the cause of the phenomenon. 

Four seconds later their curiosity was more 
than satisfied. With a muffled roar, the shell-hole 
suddenly spouted its liquid contents and other 
debris straight to the heavens, startling them con- 
siderably and entirely obscuring their vision. 

A moment later, with an exultant yell, Angus 
MTachlan was upon them. He sprang into their 
vision out of the descending cascade — a tower- 
ing, terrible, kilted figure, bare-headed and Ber- 
serk mad. He was barely forty yards away. 

Initiative is not the forte of the Teuton. Num- 
ber One of the German gun mechanically tra- 
versed his weapon four degrees to the right and 
continued to press the thumb-piece. Mud and 



THE LAST SOLO 209 

splinters of brick sprang up round Angus's feet; 
but still he came on. He was not twenty yards 
away now. The gunner, beginning to boggle be- 
tween waiting and bolting, fumbled at his ele- 
vating gear, but Angus was right on him before 
his thumbs got back to work. Then indeed the 
gun spoke out with no uncertain voice, for per- 
haps two seconds. After that it ceased fire alto- 
gether. 

Almost simultaneously there came a trium- 
phant roar lower down the street, as Mucklewame 
and his followers dashed obliquely across into the 
estaminet Mucklewame himself was carrying the 
derelict Lewis gun. In the doorway stood the 
watchful M'Snape. 

^^This way, quick! " he shouted. ^^ We have the 
Gairman gun spotted, and the ofiicer is needing 
the Lewis!" 

But M'Snape was wrong. The Lewis was not 
required. 

A few moments later, in the face of brisk snip- 
ing from the houses higher up the street, James 
Bogle, officer's servant, — a member of that de- 
spised class which, according to the Bandar-log 
at home, spend the whole of its time pressing 
its master's trousers and smoking his cigarettes 
somewhere back in billets, — led out a stretcher 
party to the German gun. Number One had been 
killed by a shot from Angus's revolver. Num- 
ber Two had adopted Hindenburg tactics, and 
was no more to be seen. Angus himself was 
lying, stone dead, a yard from the muzzle of 



210 ALL IN IT 

the gun which he, single-handed, had put out of 
action. 

His men carried him back to the Estaminet aux 
Bons Fermiers, with the German gun, which was 
afterwards employed to good purpose during the 
desperate days of attacking and counter-attack- 
ing which ensued before the village was finally 
secured. They laid him in the inner room, and 
proceeded to put the estaminet in a state of de- 
fence — ready to hold the same against all comers 
until such time as the relieving Division should 
take over, and they themselves be enabled, under 
the kindly cloak of darkness, to carry back their 
beloved officer to a more worthy resting-place. 

In the left-hand breast pocket of Angus's tunic 
they found his last letter to his father. Two Ger- 
man machine-gun bullets had passed through it. 
It was forwarded with a covering letter, by 
Colonel Kemp. In the letter Angus's command- 
ing officer informed Neil M'Lachlan that his son 
had been recommended posthumously for the 
highest honour that the King bestows upon his 
soldiers. 

But for the moment Mucklewame's little band 
had other work to occupy them. Shelling had 
recomimenced; the enemy were mustering in 
force behind the village; and presently a series of 
counter-attacks were launched. They were suc- 
cessfully repelled, in the first instance by the re- 
mainder of '^A" Company, led in person by 
Bobby Little, and, when the final struggle came, 
by the Battalion Reserve under Major Wagstaffe. 



THE LAST SOLO 211 

And throughout the whole grim struggle which 
ensued, the Estaminet aux Bons Fermiers, ten- 
anted by some of our oldest friends, proved itself 
the head and corner of the successful defence. 



XII 

RECESSIONAL 
I 

Two steamers lie at opposite sides of the dock. 
One is painted a most austere and unobtrusive 
grey; she is obviously a vessel with no desire to 
advertise her presence on the high seas. In other 
words, a transport. The other is dazzhng white, 
ornamented with a good deal of green, supple- 
mented by red. She makes an attractive picture 
in the early morning sun. Even by night you 
could not miss her, for she goes about her business 
with her entire hull outlined in red lights, regatta 
fashion, with a great luminous Red Cross blazing 
on either counter. Not even the Commander of a 
U-boat could mistake her for anything but what 
she is — a hospital ship. 

First, let us walk round to where the grey ship is 
discharging her cargo. The said cargo consists of 
about a thousand unwounded German prisoners. 

With every desire to be generous to a fallen 
foe, it is quite impossible to describe them as 
a prepossessing lot. Not one man walks like a 
soldier; they shamble. Naturally, they are dirty 
and unshaven. So are the wounded men on the 
white ship: but their outstanding characteristic 
is an invincible humanity. Beneath the mud 
and blood they are men — white men. But this 
strange throng are grey — like their ship. With 



RECESSIONAL 213 

their shifty eyes and curiously shaped heads, they 
look like nothing human. They move like over- 
driven beasts. We realise now why it is that the 
German Army has to attack in mass. 

They pass down the gangway, and are shep- 
hered into form in the dock shed by the Embarka- 
tion Staff, with exactly the same silent briskness 
that characterises the R.A.M.C., over the way. 
Their guard, with fixed bayonets, exhibit no more 
or no less concern over them than over half-a- 
dozen Monday morning malefactors paraded for 
Orderly Room. Presently they will move off, pos- 
sibly through the streets of the town; probably 
they will pass by folk against whose kith and kin 
they have employed every dirty trick possible in 
warfare. But there will be no demonstration: 
there never has been. As a nation we possess a 
certain number of faults, on which we like to 
dwell. But we have one virtue at least — we 
possess a certain sense of proportion; and we are 
not disposed to make subordinates suffer because 
we cannot, as yet, get at the principals. 

They make a good haul. Fifteen German regi- 
ments are here represented — possibly more, for 
some have torn off their shoulder-straps to avoid 
identification. Some of the units are thinly rep- 
resented; others more generously. One famous 
Prussian regiment appears to have thrown its 
hand in to the extent of about five hundred. 

Still, as they stand there, filthy, forlorn, and 
dazed, one suddenly realises the extreme appro- 
priateness of a certain reference in the Litany to 
All Prisoners and Captives. 



214 ALL IN IT 

II 

We turn to the hospital ship. 

Two great 'brows/ or covered gangways, con- 
nect her with her native land. Down these the 
stretchers are beginning to pass, having been 
raised from below decks by cunning mechanical 
devices which cause no jar; and are being con- 
veyed into the cool shade of the dock-shed. Here 
they are laid in neat rows upon the platform, 
ready for transfer to the waiting hospital train. 
Everything is a miracle of quietness and order. 
The curious public are afar off, held aloof by 
dock-gates. (They are there in force to-day, 
partly to cheer the hospital trains as they pass 
out, partly for reasons connected with the grey- 
painted ship.) In the dock-shed, organisation 
and method reign supreme. The work has been 
going on without intermission for several days 
and nights; and still the great ships come. The 
Austurias is outside, waiting for a place at the 
dock. The Lanfranc is half-way across the Eng- 
lish Channel; and there are rumours that the 
mighty Britannic ^ has selected this, the busiest 
moment in the opening fortnight of the Somme 
Battle, to arrive with a miscellaneous and irrele- 
vant cargo of sick and wounded from the Medi- 
terranean. But there is no fuss. The R.A.M.C. 
Staff Officers, unruffled and cheery, control every- 
thing, apparently by a crook of the finger. The 
stretcher-bearers do their work with silent aplomb. 

1 These three hospital ships were all subsequently sunk by 
German submarines. 



RECESSIONAL 215 

The occupants of the stretchers possess the 
almost universal feature of a six days' beard — 
always excepting those who are of an age which is 
not troubled by such manly accretions. They lie 
very still — not with the stillness of exhaustion 
or dejection, but with the comfortable resignation 
of men who have made good and have suffered in 
the process; but who now, with their troubles well 
behind them, are enduring present discomfort un- 
der the sustaining prospect of clean beds, chicken 
diet, and ultimate tea-parties. Such as possess 
them are wearing Woodbine stumps upon the 
lower lip. 

They are quite ready to compare notes. Let us ap- 
proach, and listen to a heavily bandaged gentle- 
man who — so the label attached to him informs 
us — is Private Blank, of the Manchesters, suffering 
from three '^G.S." machine-gun bullet wounds. 

"Did the Fritzes run? Yes — they run all 
right! The last lot saved us trouble by running 
towards us — with their 'ands up ! But their ma- 
chine-guns — they gave us fair 'Amlet till we got 
across No Man's Land. After that we used the 
baynit, and they did n't give us no more vexa- 
tiousness. Where did we go in? Oh, near Albert. 
Our objective was Mary's Court, or some such 
place." (It is evident that the Battle of the 
Somme is going to add some fresh household 
words to our war vocabulary. 'Wipers' is a vet- 
eran by this time: 'Plugstreet,' 'Booloo,' and 
'Armintears' are old friends. We must now 
make room for ' Monty Ban,' ' La Bustle,' 'Mucky 
Farm,' 'Lousy Wood,' and 'Martinpush.') 



216 ALL IN IT 

^^What were your prisoners like?" 

^'^Alf clemmed/' said the man from Man- 
chester. 

"No rations for three days/' explained a 
Northumberland Fusilier close by. One of his 
arms was strapped to his side, but the other still 
clasped to his bosom a German helmet. A Brit- 
ish Tommy will cheerfully shed a limb or two in 
the execution of his duty, but not all the might 
and majesty of the Royal Army Medical Corps 
can force him to relinquish a fairly earned 'sou- 
venir.' In fact, owing to certain unworthy sus- 
picions as to the true significance of the initials, 
"R.A.M.C./' he has been known to refuse chloro- 
form. 

''They could n't get nothing up to them for 
four days, on account of our artillery fire/' he 
added contentedly. 

"'Barrage,' my lad!" amended a rather supe- 
rior person with a lance-corporal's stripe and a 
bandaged foot. 

Indeed, all are unanimous in affirming that 
om* artillery preparation was a tremendous affair. 
Listen to this group of officers sunning themselves 
upon the upper deck. They are 'walking cases,' 
and must remain on board, with what patience 
they may, until all the 'stretcher cases' have 
been evacuated. 

"Loos was child's play to it," says one — a 
member of a certain immortal, or at least irre- 
pressible Division which has taken part in every 
outburst of international unpleasantness since the 
Marne. " The final hour was absolute pandemo- 



RECESSIONAL 217 

nium. And when our new trench-mortar batter- 
ies got to work too, — at sixteen to the dozen, 
— well, it was bad enough for us ; but what it 
must have been like at the business end of things, 
Lord knows! For a few minutes I was almost a 
pro-Boche!'^ 

Other items of intelligence are gleaned. The 
weather was ' rotten ^ mud-caked garments cor- 
roborate this statement. The wire, on the whole, 
was well and truly cut to pieces everywhere; 
though there were spots at which the enemy con- 
trived to repair it. Finally, ninety per cent of the 
casualties during the assault were due to machine- 
gun fire. 

But the fact most clearly elicited by casual con- 
versation is this — that the more closely you en- 
gage in a battle, the less you know about its prog- 
ress. This ship is full of officers and men who 
were in the thick of things for perhaps forty-eight 
hours on end, but who are quite likely to be ut- 
terly ignorant of what was going on round the 
next traverse in the trench which they had occu- 
pied. The wounded Gunners are able to give 
them a good deal of information. One F.0.0. saw 
the French advance. 

It was wonderful to see them go in," he said. 

Our Batteries were on the extreme right of the 
British line, so we were actually touching the 
French left flank. I had met hundreds of poilus 
back in billets, in cafes, and the like. To look at 
them strolling down a village street in their baggy 
uniforms, with their hands in their pockets, laugh- 
ing and chatting to the children, you would never 



(t 



218 ALL IN IT 

have thought they were such tigers. I remember 
one big fellow a few weeks ago, home on leave — 
'permission — who used to frisk about with a big 
umbrella under his arm! I suppose that was to 
keep the rain off his tin hat. But when they went 
for Maricourt the other day, there were n't many 
umbrellas about — only bayonets! I tell you, 
they were marvels!" 

It would be interesting to hear the poilu on his 
AUies. 

The first train moves off, and another takes its 
place. The long lines of stretchers are thinning 
out now. There are perhaps a hundred left. 
They contain men of all units — English, Scot- 
tish, and Irish. There are Gunners, Sappers, and 
Infantry. Here and there among them you may 
note bloodstained men in dirty grey uniforms — 
men with dull, expressionless faces and closely 
cropped heads. They are tended with exactly the 
same care as the others. Where wounded men 
are concerned, the British Medical Service is 
strictly neutral. 

A wounded Corporal of the R.A.M.C. turns his 
head and gazes thoughtfully at one of those grey 
men. 

''You understand English, Fritz?" he en- 
quires. 

Apparently not. Fritz continues to stare wood- 
enly at the roof of the dock-shed. 

''I should like to tell 'im a story, Jock," says 
the Corporal to his other neighbour. ''My job is 
on a hospital train. 'Alf-a-dozen 'Un aeroplanes 
made a raid behind our lines; and seeing a beauti- 



RECESSIONAL 219 

ful Red Cross train — it was a new London and 
North Western train, chocolate and white, with 
red crosses as plain as could be; — well, they sim- 
ply could n't resist such a target as that! One of 
their machines swooped low down and dropped 
his bombs on us. Luckily he only got the rear 
coach; but I happened to be in it! D' yer 'ear 
that, Fritz? " 

^'I doot he canna unnerstand ony thing," re- 
marked the Highlander. '^He's fair demoralised, 
like the rest. D' ye ken what happened tae me? 
I was gaun' back wounded, with this — "he indi- 
cates an arm strapped close to his side — ^'and 
there was six Fritzes came crawlin' oot o' a dug- 
oot, and gave themselves up tae me — me, that 
was gaun' back wounded, withoot so much as my 
jack-knife ! Demorralised — that 's it ! " 

''Did you 'ear," enquired a Cockney who came 
next in the line, '^ that all wounded are going to 
'ave a nice little gold stripe to wear — a stripe 
for every wound?" 

There was much interest at this. 

" That '11 be fine," observed a man of Kent, 
who had been out since Mons, and been wounded 
three times. ''Folks '11 know now that I'm not 
a Derby recruit." 

"Where will us wear it?" enquired a gigantic 
Yorkshireman, from the next stretcher. 

"Wherever you was 'it, lad!" replied the Cock- 
ney humoiu-ist. 

"At that rate," comes the rueful reply, "I shall 
'ave to stand oop to show mine!" 



230 ALL IN IT 

III 

But now R.A.M.C. orderlies are at hand, and 
the symposium comes to an end. The stretchers 
are conveyed one by one into the long open 
coaches of the train, and each patient is slipped 
sideways^ with gentleness and dispatch, into his 
appointed cot. 

One saloon is entirely filled with officers — the 
severe cases in the cots, the rest sitting where 
they can. A newspaper is passed round. There 
are delighted exclamations, especially from a sec- 
ond lieutenant whose features appear to be held 
together entirely by strips of plaster. Such parts 
of the countenance as can be discerned are smiling 
broadly. 

"1 knew we were doing well," says the ban- 
daged one, devouring the headlines; ''but I never 
knew we were doing as well as this. Official, too! 
Somme Battle — what? Sorry! I apologise!" as 
a groan ran round the saloon. 

"Nevermind," said an unshaven officer, with 
a twinkling eye, and a major's tunic wrapped 
loosely around him. ''I expect that jest will be 
overworked by more people than you for the next 
few weeks. Does anybody happen to know where 
this train is going to?" 

''West of England, somewhere, I believe," re- 
plied a voice. 

There was an indignant groan from various 
north countrymen. 

"I suppose it is quite impossible to sort us 
all out at a time like this," remarked a plaintive 



RECESSIONAL 221 

Caledonian in an upper cot; *^but I fail to see 
why the R.A.M.C. authorities should go through 
the mockery of asking every man in the train 
where he wants to be taken, when the train 
can obviously only go to one place — or perhaps 
two. I was asked. I said 'Edinburgh'; and the 
medical wallah said, 'Righto! Well send you 
to Bath!''' 

''I think I can explain," remarked the wounded 
major. ''These trains usually go to two places — 
one half to Bath, the other, say, to Exeter. Bath 
is nearer to Edinburgh than Exeter, so they send 
you there. It is kindly meant, but — " 

"I say/' croaked a voice from another cot, — 
its owner was a young officer who must just have 
escaped being left behind at a Base hospital as 
too dangerously wounded to move, — "is that a 
newspaper down there? Would some one have 
a look, and tell me if we have got Longueval all 
right? Longueval? Long — I got pipped, and 
don't quite — " 

The wounded major turned his head quickly. 

"Hallo, Bobby!" he observed cheerfully. 
"That you? I did n't notice you before." 

Bobby Little's hot eyes turned slowly on Wag- 
staff e, and he exclaimed feverishly: — 

"Hallo, Major! Cheeroh! Did we stick to 
Longueval all right? I 've been dreaming about it 
a bit, and — " 

"We did," replied Wagstaffe — "thanks to 
'A' Company." 

Bobby Little's head fell back on the pillow, 
and he remarked contentedly: — 



222 ALL IN IT 

'^ Thanks awfully. I think I can sleep a bit 
now. So long! See you later!" 

His eyes closed, and he sighed happily, as the 
long train shd out from the platform. 



XIII 

^^TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS " 

The smoking-room of the Britannia Club used to 
be exactly like the smoking-room of every other 
London Club. That is to say, members lounged 
about in deep chairs, and talked shop, or scandal 
— or slumbered. At any moment you might 
touch a convenient bell, and a waiter would ap- 
pear at your elbow, like a jinnee from a jar, and 
accept an order with silent deference. You could 
do this all day, and the jinnee never failed to hear 
and obey. 

That was before the war. Now, those idyllic 
days are gone. So is the waiter. So is the efficacy 
of the bell. You may ring, but all that will ma- 
terialise is a self-righteous little girl, in brass but- 
tons, who will shake her head reprovingly and 
refer you to certain passages in the Defence of the 
Realm Act. 

Towards the hour of six-thirty, however, some- 
thing of the old spirit of Liberty asserts itself. 
A throng of members — chiefly elderly gentlemen 
in expanded uniforms — assembles in the smok- 
ing-room, occupying all the chairs, and even 
overflowing on to the tables and window-sills. 
They are not the discursive, argumentative gath- 
ering of three years ago. They sit silent, rest- 
less, glancing furtively at their wrist-watches. 

The clocks of London strike half-past six. 
Simultaneously the door of the smoking-room is 



324 ALL IN IT 

thrown open, and a buxom young woman in cap 
and apron bounces in. She smiles maternally 
upon her fainting flock, and announces : — 

''The half "hour's gone. Now you can all have 
a drink!'' 

What would have happened if the waiter of old 
had done this thing, it is diflicult to imagine. But 
the elderly gentlemen greet their Hebe with a 
chorus of welcome, and clamour for precedence 
like children at a school-feast. And yet trusting 
wives believe that in his club, at least, a man is 
safe! 

Major Wagstaffe, D.S.O., having been absent 
from London upon urgent public affairs for nearly 
three years, was not well versed in the newest re- 
finements of club life. He had arrived that morn- 
ing from his Convalescent Home in the west 
country, and had already experienced a severe 
reverse at the hands of the small girl with brass 
buttons on venturing to order a sherry and bit- 
ters at 11.45 A.M. Consequently, at the statutory 
hour, his voice was not uplifted with the rest; 
and he was served last. Not least, however; for 
Hebe, observing his empty sleeve, poured out his 
soda-water with her own fair hands, and offered 
to light his cigarette. 

This scene of dalliance was interrupted by the 
arrival of Captain Bobby Little. He wore the 
ribbon of the Military Cross and walked with a 
stick — a not unusual combination in these great 
days. Wagstaffe made room for him upon the 
leather sofa, and Hebe supplied his modest wants 
with an indulgent smile. 



TWO OLD SOLDIERS 225 

An autumn and a winter had passed since the 
attack on Longueval. From July until the De- 
cember floods, the great battle had raged. The 
New Armies, supplied at last with abundant mu- 
nitions, a seasoned Staff, and a concerted plan of 
action, had answered the question propounded 
in a previous chapter in no uncertain fashion. 
Through Longueval and Delville Wood, where the 
graves of the Highlanders and South Africans now 
lie thick, through Flers and Martinpuich, through 
Pozieres and Courcelette, they had fought their 
way, till they had reached the ridge, with High 
Wood at its summit, which the Boche, not alto- 
gether unreasonably, had regarded as impreg- 
nable. The tide had swirled over the crest, down 
the reverse slope, and up at last to the top of that 
bloodstained knoll of chalk known as the Butte de 
Warlencourt. There the tlun threw in his hand. 
With much loud talk upon the subject of victori- 
ous retirements and Hindenburg Lines, he with- 
drew himself to a region far east of Bapaume; 
with the result that now some thousand square 
miles of the soil of France had been restored once 
and for all to their rightful owners. 

But Bobby and Wagstaffe had not been there. 
All during the autumn and winter they had lain 
softly in hospital, enjoying their first rest for two 
years. Wagstaffe had lost his left arm and gained 
a decoration. Bobby, in addition to his Cross, had 
incurred a cracked crown and a permanently 
shortened leg. But both were well content. They 
had done their bit — and something over; and 
they had emerged from the din of war with their 



226 ALL IN IT 

lives, their health, and their reason. A man who 
can achieve that feat in this war can count him- 
self fortunate. 

Now, passed by a Medical Board as fit for 
Home Service, they had said farewell to their 
Convalescent Home and come to London to learn 
what fate Olympus held in store for them. 

''Where have you been all day, Bobby?" en- 
quired Wagstaffe, as they sat down to dinner an 
hour later. 

''Down in Kent," replied Bobby briefly. 

"Very well: I will not probe the matter. Been 
tothe War Office?" 

"Yes. I was there this morning. I am to be 
Adjutant of a Cadet school, at Great Snoreham. 
What sort of a job is that likely to be?" 

"On the whole," replied Wagstaffe, "a Fairy 
Godmother Department job. It might have been 
very much worse. You are thoroughly up to the 
Adjutant business, Bobby, and of course the 
young officers under you will be immensely im- 
pressed by your game leg and bit of ribbon. A 
very sound appointment." 

"What are they going to do with you?" asked 
Bobby in his turn. 

"I am to command our Reserve Battalion, with 
acting rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. Think of that, 
my lad! They have confirmed you in your rank 
as Captain, I suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"Good! The only trouble is that you will be 
stationed in the South of England and I in the 
North of Scotland; so we shall not see quite so 






TWO OLD SOLDIERS 227 

much of one another as of late. However, we must 
get together occasionally, and split a tin of bully 
for old times' sake.'' 

^^ Bully? By gum!" said Bobby thoughtfully. 
'^I have almost forgotten what it tastes like. 
(Fried sole, please; then roast lamb.) Eight 
months in hospital do wash out certain remem- 
brances." 

^^But not all," said Wagstaffe. 

*^No, not all. I — I wonder how our chaps are 
getting on, over there." 

^'The regiment?" 
Yes. It is so hard to get definite news." 
They were in the Arras show. Did better 
than ever; but — well, they required a big draft 
afterwards." 

''The third time!" sighed Bobby. ''Did any 
one write to you about it?" 

"Yes. Who do you think?" 

"Some one in the regiment?" 

"Yes." 

"I did n't know there were any of the old lot 
left. Who was it?" 

" Mucklewame. " 

"Mucklewame? You mean to say the Boche 
has n't got him yet? It's like missing Rheims 
Cathedral." 

' ' Yes, they got him at Arras. Mucklewame is in 
hospital. Fortunately his chief wound is in the 
head, so he's doing nicely. Here is his letter." 

Bobby took the pencilled screed, and read : — 



228 ALL IN IT 

Major Wagstaffe, 

Sir, — / take up my pen for to inform you that I 
am now in hospital in Glasgow, having become a 
cassuality on the 18th inst, 

I was struck on the head by the nose-cap of a Ger- 
man shell {now in the possession of my guidwife). 
Unfortunately I was wearing one of they steel hel- 
mets at the time, with the result that I sustained 
a serious scalp-wound, also very bad concussion, 
I have never had a liking for they helmets anyway. 

The old regiment did fine in the last attack. They 
were specially mentioned in Orders next day. The 
objective was reached under heavy fire and position 
consolidated before we were relieved next morning. 

^^Good boys!^' interpolated Bobby softly. 

Colonel Carmichael, late of the Second Battn., I 
think, is now in command. A very nice gentleman, 
but we have all been missing you and the Captain. 

They tell me that I will be for home service after 
this. My head is doing well, but the muscules of my 
right leg is badly torn. I should have liked fine for 
to have stayed out and come home with the other boys 
when we are through with Berlin. 

Having no more to say, sir, I will now draw to a 
close. 

Jas. Mucklewame, 

C.S.M. 

After the perusal of this characteristic Ave 
atqu£ Vale! the two friends adjourned to the bal- 
cony, overlooking the Green Park. Here they lit 
their cigars in reminiscent silence, while neigh- 



TWO OLD SOLDIERS 229 

bouring search-lights raked the horizon for Zep- 
pehns which no longer came. It was a moment 
for confidences. 

^^Old Mucklewame is like the rest of us," said 
Wagstaffe at last. 

''How?'' 

''Wanting to go back, and all that. I do too — 
just because I 'm here, I suppose. A year ago, out 
there, my chief ambition was to get home, with a 
comfortable wound and a comfortable conscience." 

"Same here," admitted Bobby. 

"It was the same with practically every one," 
said Wagstaffe. "If any man asserts that he 
really enjoys modern warfare, after, say, six 
months of it, he is a liar. In the South African 
show I can honestly say I was perfectly happy. 
We were fighting in open country, against an 
adversary who was a gentleman; and although 
there was plenty of risk, the chances were that 
one came through all right. At any rate, there 
was no poison gas, and one did not see a whole 
platoon blown to pieces, or buried alive, by a sin- 
gle shell. If Brother Boer took you prisoner, he did 
not stick you in the stomach with a saw-edged 
bayonet. At the worst he pinched your trousers. 
But Brother Boche is a different proposition. 
Since he butted in, war has descended in the 
social scale. And modern scientific developments 
have turned a sporting chance of being scuppered 
into a mathematical certainty. And yet — and 
yet — old Mucklewame is right. One hates to be 
out of it — especially at the finish. When the regi- 
ment comes stiunping through London on its way 



230 ALL IN IT 

back to Euston — next year, or whenever it ^s 
going to be — with their ragged pipers leading 
the way, you would like to be at the head of 'A' 
Company, Bobby, and I would give something to 
be exercising my old function of whipper-in. Eh, 
boy?'' 

^^ Never mind," said practical Bobby. "Per- 
haps we shall be on somebody's glittering StafT. 
What I hate to feel at present is that the other 
fellows, out there, have got to go on sticking it, 
while we — " 

"And by God," exclaimed Wagstaffe, "what 
stickers they are — and were ! Did you ever see 
anything so splendid, Bobby, as those six-months- 
old soldiers of om-s — in the early days, I mean, 
when we held our trenches, week by week, under 
continuous bombardment, and our gunners be-* 
hind could only help us with four or five rounds a 
day?" 

I never did," said Bobby, truthfully. 

I admit to you," continued Wagstaffe, "that 
when I found myself pitchforked into *K (1)' 
at the outbreak of the war, instead of getting 
back to my old line battalion, I was a pretty sick 
man. I hated everybody. I was one of the old 
school — or liked to think I was — and the ways 
of the new school were not my ways. I hated the 
new officers. Some of them bullied the men; some 
of them allowed themselves to be bullied by 
N.C.O.'s. Some never gave or returned salutes, 
others went about saluting everybody. Some came 
into Mess in fancy dress of their own design, and 
elbowed senior officers off the hearthrug. I used 






TWO OLD SOLDIERS 231 

to marvel at the Colonel's patience with them. 
But many of them are dead now, Bobby, and 
they nearly all made good. Then the men! After 
ten years in the regular Army I hated them all — 
the way they lounged, the way they dressed, the 
way they sat, the way they spat. I wondered 
how I could ever go on living with them. And 
now — I find myself wondering how I am ever 
going to live without them. We shall not see their 
like again. The new lot — present lot — are 
splendid fellows. They are probably better sol- 
diers. Certainly they are more uniformly trained. 
But there was a piquancy about our old scamps in 
'K (1)' that was unique — priceless — something 
the world will never see again.'' 

I don't know," said Bobby thoughtfully. 
That Cockney regiment which lay beside us at 
Albert last summer was a pretty priceless lot. 
Do you remember a pair of fat fellows in their 
leading platoon? We called them Fortnum and 
Mason!" 

^^I do — particularly Fortnum. Go on! " 
'^ Well, their bit of trench was being shelled one 
day, and Fortnum, who was in number one bay 
with five other men, kept shouting out to Mason, 
who was round a traverse and out of sight, to en- 
quire how he was getting on. 'Are you all right. 
Bill?' 'Are you sure you're all right, Bill?' 
'Are you still all right. Bill?' and so on. At last 
Bill, getting fed up with this unusual solicitude, 
yelled back: 'What's all the anxiety abaht, eh?' 
And Fortnum put his head round the trav- 
erse and explained. 'We're getting up a little 






232 ALL IN IT 

sweepstake in our bay/ he said, 'abaht the first 
casuality, and IVe drawn you, ole son!'" 

Wagstaffe chuckled. 

"That must have been the regiment that had 
the historic poker party," he said. 

''What yarn was that?" 

"I heard it from the Brigadier — four times, to 
be exact. Five men off duty were sitting in a dug- 
out playing poker. A gentleman named 'Erb had 
just gone to the limit on his hand, when a rifle- 
grenade came into the dug-out from somewhere 
and did him in. While they were waiting for the 
stretcher-bearers, one of the other players picked 
up 'Erb's hand and examined it. Then he laid 
it down again, and said : ' It does n't matter, 
chaps. Poor 'Erb would n't a made it, anyway. 
I 'ad four queens.' " 

''Tommy has his own ideas of fun, I'll admit," 
said Bobby. "Do you remember those first 
trenches of ours at Festubert? There was a 
dead Frenchman buried in the parapet — you 
know how they used to biu-y people in those 
days?" 

"I did notice it. Go on." 

"Well, this poor chap's hand stuck out, just 
about four feet from the floor of the trench. My 
dug-out was only a few yards away, and I never 
saw a member of my platoon go past that spot 
without shaking the hand and saying, 'Good- 
morning, Alphonse ! ' I had it built up with sand- 
bags ultimately, and they were quite annoyed!" 

"They have some grisly notions about life and 
death," agreed Wagstaffe, "but they are extraordi- 



TWO OLD SOLDIERS 233 

narily kind to people in trouble, such as wounded 
men, or prisoners. You can't better them." 

^^And now there are five milUons of them. 
We are all in it, at last!'' 

"We certainly are — men and women. I'm 
afraid I had hardly realised what our women were 
doing for us. Being on service all the time, one 
rather overlooks what is going on at home. But 
stopping a bullet puts one in the way of a good 
deal of inside information on that score." 

"You mean hospital work, and so on?" 

"Yes. One meets a lot of wonderful people that 
way! Sisters, and ward-maids, and V.A.D.'s — " 

"I love all V.A.D.'s!" said Bobby, unexpect- 
edly. 

"Why, my youthful Mormon?" 

"Because they are the people who do all the 
hard work and get no limelight — like — like — ! " 

"Like Second Lieutenants — eh? " 

"Yes, that is the idea. They have a pretty 
hard time, you know," continued Bobby confiden- 
tially : "And nothing heroic, either. Giving up all 
the fun that a girl is entitled to; washing dishes; 
answering the door-bell; running up and down- 
stairs; eating rotten food. That's the sort of — " 

"What is her name?" enquired the accusing 
voice of Major Wagstaffe. Then, without wait- 
ing to extort an answer from the embarrassed 
Bobby: — 

"You are quite right. This war has certainly 
brought out the best in our women. The South 
African War brought out the worst. My good- 
ness, you should have seen the Mount Nelson 



234 ALL IN IT / 

Hotel at Capetown in those days! But they 
have been wonderful this time — wonderful. I 
love them all — the bus-conductors, the ticket- 
punchers, the lift-girls — one of them nearly shot 
me right through the roof of Harrod's the other 
day — and the window-cleaners and the page- 
girls and the railway-portresses! I divide my 
elderly heart among them. And I met a bunch 
of munition girls the other day, Bobby, coming 
home from work. They were all young, and most 
of them were pretty. Their faces and hands were 
stained a bright orange-colour with picric acid, 
and will be, I suppose, until the Boche is booted 
back into his stye. In other words, they had de- 
liberately sacrificed their good looks for the dura- 
tion of the war. That takes a bit of doing, I 
know, innocent bachelor though I am. But bless 
you, they were n't worrying. They waved their 
orange-coloured hands to me, and pointed to 
their orange-coloured faces, and laughed. They 
were proud of them; they were doing their bit. 
They nearly made me cry, Bobby. Yes, we are 
all in it now; and those of us who come out of it 
are going to find this old island of ours a wonder- 
fully changed place to live in." 

^'How? Why?" enquired Bobby. Possibly he 
was interested in Wagstaffe's unusual expansive- 
ness: possibly he hoped to steer the conversa- 
tion away from the topic of V.A.D.'s — possibly 
towards it. You never know. 

''Well," said Wagstaffe, ''we are all going to 
understand one another a great deal better after 
this war." 



TWO OLD SOLDIERS 235 

"Who? Labour and Capital, and so on?" 
''^Labour and Capital' is a meaningless and 
misleading expression, Bobby. For instance, our 
men regard people like you and me as Capital- 
ists; the ordinary Brigade Major regards us as 
Labourers, and pretty common Labourers at 
that. It is all a question of degree. But what I 
mean is this. You can't call your employer a 
tyrant and an extortioner after he has shared his 
rations with you and never spared himself over 
your welfare and comfort through weary months 
of trench- warfare; neither, when you have experi- 
enced a working-man's courage and cheerfulness 
and reliability in the day of battle, can you turn 
round and call him a loafer and an agitator in 
time of peace — can you? That is just what the 
Bandar-log overlook, when they jabber about 
the dreadful industrial upheaval that is coming 
with peace. Most of all have they overlooked the 
fact that with the coming of peace this country 
will be invaded by several million of the wisest 
men that she has ever produced — the New 
British Army. That Army will consist of men 
who have spent three years in getting rid of 
mutual misapprehensions and assimilating one 
another's point of view — men who went out to 
the war ignorant and intolerant and insular, and 
are coming back wise to all the things that really 
matter. They will flood this old country, and 
they will make short work of the agitator, and 
the alarmist, and the profiteer, and all the nasty 
creatures that merely make a noise instead of 
doing something, and who crab the work of the 



236 ALL IN IT 

Army and Navy — more especially the Navy — 
because there is n't a circus victory of some kind in 
the paper every morning. Yes, Bobby, when our 
boys get back, and begin to ask the Bandar-log 
what they did in the Great War — well, it 's going 
to be a rotten season for Bandar-log generally!" 

There was silence again. Presently Bobby 
spoke : — 

^'When our boys get back! Some of them are 
never coming back again, worse luck!" 

''Still," said Wagstaffe, ''what they did was 
worth doing, and what they died for was worth 
while. I think their one regret to-day would be 
that they did not live to see their own fellows 
taking the offensive — the line going forward on 
the Somme; the old tanks waddling over the 
Boche trenches; and the Boche prisoners throw- 
ing up their hands and yowling ' Kamerad ' ! And 
the Kut unpleasantness cleaned up, and all the 
kinks in the old SaUent straightened out! And 
Wytchaete and Messines! You remember how 
the two ridges used to look down into our lines at 
Wipers and Plugstreet? And now we're on top of 
both of them! Some of our friends out there — 
the friends who are not coming back — would 
have liked to know about that, Bobby. I wish 
they could, somehow." 

"Perhaps they do," said Bobby simply. 

It was close on midnight. Our "two old soldiers, 
broken in the wars," levered themselves stiffly to 
their feet, and prepared to depart. 

' ' Heigho ! ' ' said Wagstaffe. " It is time for two 



TWO OLD SOLDIERS 237 

old wrecks like us to be in bed. That's what we 
are, Bobby — wrecks, dodderers, has-beens! But 
we have had the luck to last longer than most. 
We have dodged the missiles of the Boche to an 
extent which justifies us in claiming that we have 
followed the progress of their war with a rather 
more than average degree of continuity. We were 
the last of the old crowd, too. Kemp has got his 
Brigade, young Cockerell has gone to be a Staff 
Captain, and — you and I are here. Some of the 
others dropped out far too soon. Young Lochgair, 
oldBlaikie— " 

''Waddell, too," said Bobby. ''We joined the 
same day." 

''And Angus M'Lachlan. I think he would 
have made the finest soldier of the lot of us," 
added Wagstaffe. "You remember his remark to 
me, that we only had the bye to play now? . He 
was a true prophet : we are dormy, anyhow. (Only 
cold feet at Home can let us down now.) And he 
only saw three months' service ! Still, he made a 
great exit from this world, Bobby, and that is 
the only thing that matters in these days. Ha! 
H'm! As our new Allies would say, I am begin- 
ning to 'pull heart stuff' on you. Let us go to 
bed. Sleeping here? " 

"Yes, till to-morrow. Then off on leave." 

"How much have you got?" 

"A month. I say?" 

"Yes?" 

"Are you doing anything on the nineteenth?" 

Wagstaffe regarded his young friend suspi- 
ciously. 



238 ALL IN IT 

'^Is this a catch of some kind?'' he enquired. 

'^Oh, no. Will you be my — '' Bobby turned 
excessively pink, and completed his request. 

Wagstaffe surveyed him resignedly. 

^'We all come to it, I suppose," he observed. 
'^Only some come to it sooner than others. Are 
you of age, my lad? Have your parents — " 

''I'm twenty- two," said Bobby shortly. 

''Will the bridesmaids be pretty?" 

"They are all peaches," replied Bobby, with 
enthusiasm. "But nothing whatever," he added, 
in a voice of respectful rapture, "compared with 
the bride!" 



THE END 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: J(J f^ 2001 

PreservationTechnologie 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATIO 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




007 693 407 1 



